


A Rose's Thorn

by TheTeaIsAddictive



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991)
Genre: AU, Depressed Character (Implied), F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, I promise this isn't a 'dark' retelling it just has some serious themes in it, Mental Institutions (mentioned), Minor Character Death, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-06-07 23:32:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 97,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6829900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTeaIsAddictive/pseuds/TheTeaIsAddictive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because a prince insulted a witch, he was cursed. Because a girl fell in love, the spell was broken. But when a merchant chooses to trust his horse, the prince risks never breaking his enchantment. And the merchant's daughter will be trapped in marriage with a man she doesn't love. Can they find each other, even with all the changes to this tale as old as time?</p><p>or,</p><p>Maurice never takes the fork in the road that leads to the Beast's castle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - The Curse

**Author's Note:**

> In this story, a minor character is wrongfully admitted to a mental institution and suffers abuse there. This is not the main focus of the story; you will never read this character's perspective while they are in the asylum, only other character's reactions to it. Because this will be so rarely seen, I've rated this as T, however I will be happy to bump it up if anybody is uncomfortable with this rating. 
> 
> With that in mind, I hope you enjoy the prologue, and the story as a whole.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a witch meets a child, and lays a curse.

**Prologue**

**The Curse**

The witching hour had arrived. 

The moon gleamed down through the branches, hitting the forest floor in patches. Only the faintest murmur of wind disturbed the snow lying thick across the ground. No creatures were stirring that night; there wasn't even the puff of hot air visible in the frozen stillness. Ice crept around boughs and bark, clinging close to the lifeblood of the trees like a crushing vice. Glinting in the moonlight, it spread its grasp from branch, to ground, to frozen pond. Not even the wolves, born and raised in conditions much harsher than this clear, moonlit night, dared look out their dens. 

A cloaked figure was the lone moving thing in this landscape of ice and frost. It glided silently through the tableau of winter, the fluttering of its cloak leaving no mark on the ground. It seemed to be hovering an inch or so above the snow, so that no footprints were behind to showcase where the figure had come from. Such things were usually impossible. But not in the witching hour of winter. 

It stayed on its invisible path through the dark, deserted woods, when it seemed to notice a plant. It stopped in its tracks - not violently enough to merit the use of 'suddenly', yet it was clear this pause had not been planned by the figure. The green, leafy stem of the plant was as yet untouched by the ice surrounding its sisters, and the cloaked figure drew close to it. It extended an old, wizened hand towards the plant. The nails were long and filthy, and the hand itself almost grey and lifeless. A golden ring adorned the fourth finger, with a large emerald set deep into it. It seemed to sparkle with the brilliance of the sun, illuminating the immediate area around the figure with a deep green glow.

The figure brushed the plant with its fingertips, and it began to glow with the same brightness as the ring. The stem grew steadily taller, buds and thorns bursting out in a haze of muted colour. The figure drew its hand away as the small plant finished growing into a magnificent rose bush, half the size of the figure. Flowers of all colours draped around the thorns; pearlescent whites, glowing yellows, blushing pinks. The figure moved its hand over the roses, seemingly undecided. Its gnarled fingers hovered over a gleaming white rose, with deep tinges of bloody red on the edge of its petals, before finally plucking a rose red enough to rival rubies.

As soon as the rose had been picked, the bush shrivelled up, back to a small green stem. With a wave of the hand, frost and ice coated the shrub, until it was as concealed from the human eye as its sisters. The cloaked figure tucked the rose safely into an inner pocket, and continued on its journey.

In the distance, the figure suddenly saw warm, yellow light - candlelight. It was several miles away, a small sliver of yellow that human eyes would not have detected. But the figure could see it, and knew that its journey was almost over. Still hovering inches above the ground, it moved towards the human light. Across clearings, across a frozen lake, through more dark forest. Past a small village a mile and a half away from the light source. Past a small wagon pulled by an exhausted horse, a weary man with a broad-brimmed hat sitting in front. A little girl lay against his side, dressed all in black, with brown eyes half-open, red-rimmed. She caught sight of the cloaked figure, and fear sparked in her childish eyes. 

"Papa!" she cried out, extending a chubby hand to point at the figure.

But it had already moved on, back into the darkness of the forest. It didn't worry about the child. She had nothing to do with the roles that were to be fulfilled. And if she did . . . a little fear never hurt anybody. It glided on, its pace never rushing or slowing once since the rose had been plucked, until it reached the source of the candlelight.

A castle almost from a fairytale rose above the cloaked figure. Turrets glinted with gold, angels smiled knowingly down from every corner, and a large moat surrounded everything. The figure crossed with moat with ease. It had been a long time since there was running water in the moat, and there was no iron in any of the fortifications. It saved the figure from having to lure the child out as she'd needed to previously. It was a lot simpler now, than in the old days.

As it drew near the imposing front doors, a faint green glow emanated from the cloak, similar to when it had picked the rose. As it raised its head to look at the sky, the hood fell back, to reveal the face of an ugly, wizened old woman. Her ring glowed, hidden through the folds of draping material, and the sky grew dark with clouds. Snow began to fall heavily, and the old woman pulled her hood back over her head. It was almost time. She waited for the snow to pile upon her, until the water soaked into the material of her cloak, and then she began to shiver, although she felt no cold. Lifting her ringless hand up, she knocked on the door of the castle three times.

After a pause, where the echoes of her knock filled the castle halls, the door opened slowly. It was only enough to let a sliver of light through, but she could see a piercing blue eye, and the garments of nobility.

 _Open the door please, child,_ she said. Hesitating a little, he did, and the old woman could see the form and figure of a boy. He was small for his age, and his eyes seemed to be too big for his face. Likewise, his strong nose and high cheekbones overpowered his childlike roundness, but she could see he would grow into them eventually. He was dressed simply for a prince, in a shirt and trousers, nothing more. The woman noticed he was barefoot.

"Who are you?" he said warily. He appeared confused as to why he had even opened the door, but still determined to act with all his royal status. The woman could have told him why he opened the door; it was because it was his role to open it.

 _I am a lost and weary traveller. Can I stay here for the night?_ she asked. She smiled, and her black and missing teeth seemed to frighten the child almost as much as it disgusted him.

"No! Go down to the village and seek shelter there," he said.

 _Please,_ she said. _It is bitterly cold tonight._

"I'm the prince of this region! It's not my responsibility to house you - that's the innkeeper's job, you dirty peasant!" he cried. She could see the pride rise up in his eyes, the shame he felt at even talking to a woman this grotesque, and he turned around - no doubt to call on a servant.

 _Do not be deceived by appearances, child,_ the old woman said. _True beauty is found within. Are you sure you wish to turn me away?_ Fear and disgust played out on the boy's face, before he straightened up to the full measure of his height - an unimpressive move now, but one that could be imposing when he grew into his strong bones.

"Yes! Go away, you filthy hag, and don't let me catch you here again, or it'll be the stocks for you!"

She reached out with a sudden movement and grasped the boy's jaw, forcing his head up at a painful angle. Shocked, he let go of the door, and it sung open slowly as the old woman's emerald began to glow. Her dirty fingernails dug into his skin, almost deep enough to draw blood.

In a burst of green light, the old woman's ugliness faded away, until she was a bewitchingly beautiful enchantress. Her hair was pale gold, rippling down the back of her cloak, her skin no longer wrinkled and dirty, and her eyes the same blazing emerald green as the stone on her ring. The hand holding the prince's face, however, was still that of the old woman's. The child seemed to have lost his voice, his mouth shaping words of soundless terror, as his eyes darted from one side of his head to the other, desperately searching for help. 

_Any words to share?_ the enchantress asked.

"I - I'm sorry," the boy stammered. "Please - please forgive me Madam Enchantress - I didn't know it would be you - please forgive me - I'm so sorry -"

 _Save your apologies for later,_ the enchantress said. _I have looked, and there is no love in your heart._ Lines on a page. He loved several things, she could tell. But this was her role.

"What are you going to do to me?" he asked. She could feel his heart racing, his breath coming faster.

 _You are cursed to appear as monstrous outside, as you are on the inside. You have until your twenty-first year to find someone to love you, and to love her in return._ With a wave of her hand, she conjured the rose she had plucked, presenting it to him covered in a bell jar. _This rose will bloom until midnight of your twenty-first birthday. If you have not found love by the time the last petal falls, you will remain a monster for all time. Do not destroy the rose either. It will end up worse for you if you do._ She also conjured up a mirror. _This mirror will show you anything you wish to see. Look after it._ She snapped her fingers, and they placed themselves in the boy's chambers - wherever in the castle that was.

_It seems fitting a monster has monstrous surroundings. Your servants and castle are also under this enchantment._

"But they didn't even do anything!" the boy protested. "Why should they be cursed -"

_They encouraged you in this path. It was their duty to bring you up in a way your parents would have been proud of. They have failed you, and they have failed your parents._

"Don't say a word about my parents!" the boy cried out suddenly. He wrenched his jaw away from the enchantress's grip, and anger flooded him. "You don't know anything about them!"

 _Silence!_ she said. With only a twitch of her fingers, she dragged the boy back towards her, clamping her hand around his jaw again. She pushed his head further back than previously, until his back arched and he gasped for breath. _For that impertinence, another condition. I will take your name. Neither you, nor your servants, nor your family will remember it, until the curse is broken._

She let go of the boy's jaw without warning, and he slumped to the floor, trying to catch his breath. She swept away from him, further into the castle, and clapped her hands once.

Instantly, the bright colours of the interior darkened and dulled. The marble angels rippled, the stone reworking itself into demons and dragons. She heard faint sounds of smashing plates and cutlery from further down the hall, and knew this was her curse on the servants beginning to take effect as they dropped whatever was in their hands. She could hear panicked shouts coming from the butler's room, presumably where he was having his evening meal. From the other end of the castle, she could hear children crying in panic, although the prince could not. A cold breeze ripped through the castle, extinguishing the fires and leaving her in near darkness.

A low moan of pain sounded from the prince behind her. He cried out again, and it changed suddenly from a human's shout of pain to an animal's roar of injury. She walked slowly past him, and could hear the crunch of his bones rearranging themselves, the rip of his clothes as they struggled to contain his animalistic size. She swept out, crossing the moat again, leaving the young prince to his curse. With a flick of her hand, the clouds cleared and once again moonlight shone across the land. The enchantress glided father towards the forest, and glanced back once at the castle, now resembling something from a nightmare.

 _I'm sorry, young Beast,_ she said. _This is never enjoyable, no matter how many times it has happened before. May you find your Beauty soon._

With the next gust of wind, she was gone, as if she had never existed. The castle was left to its fate.


	2. Chapter 1 - The Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet our protagonist, and jump straight into the plot.

**Chapter One**

**The Girl**

_Ten years later_

The autumn sun streamed down brightly over the little village. Birds chirped softly from the heights of rooftops and chimney stacks, collecting nuts and berries for the coming winter - the only gentle things in the whole scene. The streets were a bustle of activity, as merchants, farmers, bakers, haberdashers, butchers, greengrocers, and their wives took part in the chaos of market day. The air was filled with the screams of playing children, the noises of animals for sale, and the loud exchanges between seller and consumer. The farmers chewed meditatively on their tobacco, occasionally spitting it onto the ground at an especially ludicrous bargain; their children held tightly to the animals for sale, gazing longingly at the other boys and girls their age, who could freely play in the streets. 

Into this collection of confusion and loud noise entered a tall, blue-clad girl, keeping one hand tightly clasped around her covered basket. She wove her way quickly and expertly through the throng of people to the baker's window, a polished, polite smile already on her face.

"Good morning, Belle," the baker smiled. "Just the usual today?"

"Yes please," she said. "How are you today, monsieur?"

"Just fine," he said from further inside the shop. "We're swamped with all the extra visitors, but market day's always like that this time of year. Are you selling anything today, Belle?"

"No," she said, taking the bread and tossing over a few coins. "Papa's meant to be home from the fair today, and I want to be back home in time to see him."

"Nice talking to you anyway," the baker said. "Say, have you thought any more about Gaston's offer? It was very generous of him to -"

"I'm sorry, I have to go now," Belle said hurriedly. She grabbed her basket and darted back into the crowd, losing sight of the baker within an instant.

"Strange girl," the baker said. "Marie!" he called out a second later, "hurry up with the baguettes!"

Belle moved quickly through the throngs of people, trying to avoid the glances that followed her. Not for the first time, she wished she hadn't been quite so strong in her rejection of Gaston. He'd deserved it - she couldn't think of anyone else in the village who needed taken down a peg or two more than him - but this had only sparked his desire to possess Belle. She smirked a little at the recollection of seeing him covered in mud in front of the whole village. Yes, that humiliation was a good punishment for attempting to force her into marriage. But the backlash from the village had been severe. Or rather, the backlash from the women. 

"Bonjour, Madame Cotard," Belle smiled. 

The haberdasher's wife stopped mid-conversation to glance towards Belle. She normally always had a smile for her; Maurice was her husband's best customer, with his sometimes weekly need for unusual trinkets. But since Gaston's proposal, she now merely nodded her head slightly, with a grave "Bonjour," instead of her usual fountain of chatter. 

Belle hurried past, a little stung. She liked Madame Cotard, and had thought she'd approved of Belle's choice. 

"Always a little odd, that girl was," Belle heard her say distantly to a woman Belle didn't recognise. "A great beauty, but she holds a mighty high opinion of herself if you ask me. Always _reading_ \- and not just essays, but novels, too!"

"Disgraceful in a woman," the other woman said. "How will she ever find a husband?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you? Just last week, a long-time beau came to see her . . ."

Belle fumed silently as she continued into town. _He wasn't my beau! He's barely been my friend since he turned eighteen, let alone anything else!_ Her stony expression set off more gleefully disgusted whispers, and Belle half-jogged along to the bookstore. The owner, Madame Hoen, was one of the few women in town who approved of what Belle had done. Belle had met her on the first day of living in the village, nearly ten years ago now. Belle still remembered Madame Hoen's look of surprise when little eight-year-old Belle had asked for a copy of a book far above the normal reading level of a child. They'd met up at least once a week ever since then, to read books together in companionable silence or to discuss them loudly with expressive gestures.

A bell jingled as she entered the bookshop. It was always deserted; the village wasn't really one for reading. Madame Hoen always kept a good stock of farmer's almanacs and seed journals, but aside from those decidedly seasonal purchases the shop was solely provided for by Belle's reading habit and Madame Hoen's own money. Despite these gloomy financial proceedings, it was a sort of haven to Belle. It was never as uncomfortably tidy as some other shops in the village. Red shades lit the books in a rosy glow, the chairs were easy to sit on, and Madame Hoen always had a pot of tea on the boil. 

"Belle!" Madame Hoen appeared from behind the counter, a wide grin over her face. She adjusted the veil she always wore over her head, silver-grey curls poking out from behind her ears. Her deep-set eyes twinkled, dark in the recess of her face. "And how are you today?"

"Not good," Belle said. "Madame Cotard barely looked at me today. She's known me for years - how could she honestly expect me to marry him? We're nothing alike!" A knowing expression flitted over Madame Hoen's face.

"Belle, you must remember that you are decidedly individual when it comes to opinions on marriage. Not every woman would marry for love. Not every woman can." A sorrowful expression flitted over her face. "And not every woman wants to. Sometimes they marry simply for security; to have a roof over their heads and know where their next meal is coming from. Other times . . ."

"What?" Belle asked. Madame Hoen looked down at the slightly dusty floor. "What else, Madame Hoen? You can tell me."

"Other times, a woman will marry to avoid a scandal," she said. "Sometimes a very real one, sometimes one created by her would-be husband."

"A man would do that to possess somebody?" Belle asked, horror in her eyes. 

"Not every man, but enough of them for it to be a very real possibility. Such things aren't always confined to storybooks."

Belle shuddered. Madame Hoen laid a comforting hand on her arm, and for a moment, despite their many differences, they were just two world-weary women, taking and receiving comfort in each other. 

"On the other hand," Madame Hoen said, the faintest hint of a smile on her face, "some women never marry. Because they don't want or need to rely on a man for the rest of their lives."

"Is that why you didn't?" Belle asked, genuinely curious. 

"Yes," she smiled. "I could have married any of the men in my village, if I wished it. But I didn't love them; any of them, at all. My father left me enough money to make a living or furnish a dowry, if I so desired." She smiled ruefully. "Most of my family would have wanted that money for a dowry. My brothers in particular. But I wanted - had always wanted - to own a little bookshop of my own."

"So that's why you moved all the way to France?" Belle asked. "Just to own a bookshop?"

Madame Hoen laughed. 

"I've been wondering why you came here for years. Why are you telling me this now, Madame?"

"You are no longer a child," she simply said. "And since the first day I knew you, I've always thought we were very alike." She clapped her hands together. "That reminds me," she said, "do you have the book you borrowed?"

"Right here, Madame," Belle said, taking it out her basket.

"What did you think?" she asked, as she climbed up the ladders to fill a small space on a high shelf with Belle's book.

"Good," Belle said. "A little slower than I usually like in some places. And the morality in the lead characters have the most shifting shades of grey I've ever seen. But overall, I think it worked really well. Is there anything else by him I can read?"

"Not today, Belle," Madame Hoen said. "I've something particular in mind for you."

"Really?" Excitement spurted low in her belly. It had been a while since Madame Hoen had recommended a book, and her choices were always excellent. 

"Here it is," she said, presenting Belle with a blue-bound book, the title sketched in gold paint. "You've already read it, I know. But there's some interesting commentary at the end, and I thought you'd like the binding."

"Thank you, Madame," Belle whispered reverently. She had never been one to judge a book by its cover, but when it was a cover as beautiful as this around a story so captivating she'd read it more times than she could count . . . Well, Belle certainly wasn't complaining. "How much is it?"

"No charge," Madame Hoen said. 

Belle sighed. They went through the same charade ever week, Madame Hoen only rarely insisting that she buy a book. "Alright then, when do you want me to bring it back?"

"Don't," she said. "You can keep it."

"Madame, don't be ridiculous, this has to be worth a fortune!" Belle placed the book back down on the shelf, but not slotted into place. "Don't pass up that sort of thing just for me! There could be a customer who walks in here five minutes after I leave, and ask specifically for that book, and then you'd miss out on a sale, and -"

"Belle, nobody comes here for the books except for you," she said. "Just take it. It's a gift."

"It's not my birthday until May," Belle persisted.

Madame Hoen sighed. "Do you want the book?"

"Well . . ."

"Do you want it?"

"Yes," Belle said quietly. 

"Then take it." She picked the book back up, and pressed it into Belle's hands, who put it slowly into her basket. 

"Thank you, Madame Hoen," Belle smiled.

"You're awful at accepting gifts, you know that?" she teased. "Now go, go back home! Your father will be back from the fair soon, won't he?"

"Yes," Belle smiled. "Thank you so much, Madame. I won't forget this."

Belle went back out into the heat and frenzy of market day. It was harder for her now to make her way back, as she was moving in the opposite direction to the flow of people around her. More than once she had her feet stepped on quite painfully, or risked the contents of her basket falling out into the mud. Belle glanced over at the haberdasher's shop, to see a group of elderly village women all gathered around Madame Cotard. Their fingers flew through the small pieces of embroidery in their gnarled hands, heads bobbing up and down like sage old harpies from her books. She couldn't hear the exact words of their chatter, but Belle knew they were talking about her from the way they all stopped their conversations at once when they noticed her. Holding her head high, Belle swept past them, continuing to make her way home. She didn't care that they'd think her proud and standoffish now. She just wanted to see her father.

As she crossed the small bridge separating her father's house from the rest of the village, she heard a gunshot ring out in the distance. The huntsmen were back in town - too late to seriously sell anything, but still early enough to make a spectacular entrance. She rolled her eyes just thinking about how much Gaston would be showing off, in all his hunting 'finery'. Despite what he told the girls from outside the village, there were no men in the town who exclusively hunted for a living. Even Gaston, though he made two or three times the amount of money that other men did, had to keep up a side trade in case of bad winters or elusive summers. 

As Belle neared home, she could see Phillipe, the carthorse, munching on some tall grass outside the house. Slowly, a smile transfixed her face. It started at her eyes, blossoming onto her mouth, until she was the very picture of joy. As if she was a child of eight and not a woman of eighteen, she ran the rest of the way back to the house and threw the door open, to see Maurice just settled in his favourite chair by the fire. 

"Belle," he said, voice trembling slightly, "you won't believe what happened to me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bookseller is a woman here because why not? And anyway, Belle needs more female friends.
> 
> And if anybody was curious as to why the villagers seemed friendly with Belle up until shortly before the start of the story . . . Well, I've always found that losing people you thought were friends is more painful than never having them in the first place.


	3. Chapter Two - The Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Maurice and Belle have a few key conversations, and a mysterious phenomenon begins.

**Chapter Two**

**The Father**

"Papa, you're back!" Belle cried out, racing across the room to lock him in an embrace. She slipped slightly, meaning she fell into his lap rather than hovered above his shoulder like she'd intended, but just now Belle didn't mind. His arms circled around her, and for a moment Belle felt like a little girl again, safe in her father's arms. She'd missed Maurice so much - two weeks without her father was lonely whatever the circumstances, but given what had happened at the end of last week, she was even happier to see him safely home again.

He pressed a kiss against her hairline, chuckling heartily. "My girl, I know you're a grown woman, but sometimes you can behave awfully like a child!" He squeezed her so tightly it hurt her ribs for a moment, and then pushed her back to look at her face. "It does me good, though. You won't be leaving your old father so soon, will you?"

"Of course not," Belle laughed, pulling up her own favourite chair to rest beside Maurice. "Now tell me, Papa, what happened to you that was so exciting?"

"Well," Maurice said, "you remember how you have always believed that the inventions would become successful one day?"

"Yes," Belle smiled.

"And that your mother, bless her soul, said she knew that one day we would achieve something great?"

"Yes, Papa," she said. 

"Well, my dear . . . the log-chopper won first prize at the fair!" Maurice looked like he'd been dying to tell her from the beginning of the conversation.

Belle jumped up and shrieked, her hands flying up to her mouth the way they always did when she laughed or cried. "Papa!" she gasped, "first prize - oh, I _knew_ this would be a good invention!"

"That's not all," Maurice said. "We've got enough prize money to really fix up this house now; we can get better lighting for the cellar, the pipes can get specialist attention, and Phillipe can get a new saddle and bridle."

"He deserves it, after tugging that invention all the way there," Belle said, a grin still plastered on her face. She laughed, and stopped short, looking at her father. Maurice smiled back at her, and her laughter started again. Maurice joined in, his deep belly laugh rumbling agreeably, and pulled her back into a hug.

"I just wish Mama had been there to finally see your success," Belle said eventually. "You both waited so many years for a breakthrough."

"She'll be watching from heaven, my dear," Maurice said, moisture clinging to the corners of his eyes. "She'd be so proud to see you all grown up. I am too, you know."

"Papa . . ." Belle said.

"No, Belle, listen," he said. "You're the only daughter I have - the only _child_ I have. I don't want you ever thinking I'm not proud of you, of everything you've done."

"I haven't _done_ anything, though," she said, a little irritated. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Just looked after the house, and you."

"You had to grow up quickly, after your mother died. You've always believed in me, always spurred me on. And you've grown from a headstrong little girl to an intelligent young woman, who'll do great things some day." He kissed her cheek. "You keep me right half the time."

"More than half," Belle teased. "I'm surprised you didn't get lost on the way to the fair without me there."

"Actually," Maurice said sheepishly, "I almost did. A signpost in the middle of the woods was ripped apart, and I couldn't tell which way to go."

Just then, Belle felt something odd. There was a humming noise in her head, loud and low. She could feel it vibrating down her spine, and she thought she heard the sound of pages being ripped apart. She could feel, or hear, a voice saying, _How could this happen? This can't happen! He shouldn't be able to change this!_ Her vision blurred for a moment, and blood rushed in her ears. Then, just as suddenly as the feeling had started, it stopped.

"But Phillipe, as always, steered me in the right direction," Maurice continued, oblivious to his daughter's experience. "Although I'm sure that other direction was a shortcut, Belle. Belle?"

"Yes?" she asked, snapped out her bewilderment at what just happened to her.

"Are you alright, Belle? You look pale."

"I feel a little faint, actually," she said. "I think I'm going to go lie down for a little while. Must have been the heat of market day."

"Don't overdo it, Belle," Maurice said. "You're all I've got, you know."

"Yes, Papa," she said. "I'll just get my book out the basket."

"Another book?" he teased. "You're breaking the bank, my dear!"

"It was a gift, actually," she said. "Madame Hoen refused to even let me borrow it, let alone pay."

"She's very kind to you," Maurice said. "I was just teasing about breaking the bank, Belle. We won't have to worry about money anymore. Not after this success. Now go, go lie down before you fall over in the middle of the floor."

She laughed, and started up the long flight of stairs to her attic bedroom. She remembered racing up and down these stairs when she was a little girl, always excited to see what Maurice was tinkering with that day. When she was still young enough to be picked up, he would carry her back up the stairs if she fell asleep in front of a book or at the table. Belle pushed open her door slowly, and without any hesitation collapsed on the bed. She'd made the patchwork quilt when she was 14, and there were still small bloodstains at the seams from where she had kept pricking her fingers. The squares were all different colours, although blue featured predominately. 

She sighed and flopped onto her back, closing her eyes so all she could feel was the soft quilt on her back and the nothingness where her feet dangled off the end of the bed. It wasn't the first time this dizziness had come over her. It had first happened a few days ago, in the middle of the street. She'd been lucky not to fall over and cause a scene. It was strange that she'd heard a voice this time, though. It wasn't her own voice narrating her thoughts, but that of an older woman. But she couldn't think of anyone she knew who possessed that timbre of ageless grace and wisdom in her voice.

"This is too confusing," Belle muttered. She opened her eyes gently, and stretched her arm out, patting the bed to find her book. She flipped over to her stomach, propping herself on her elbows, and started to get whisked away by tales of far-off places, daring sword fights, magic spells, and princes in disguise. There was a reason this was her favourite book. 

***

Later, when she'd stopped feeling so faint, Belle came back downstairs to cook supper for the two of them. 

"Feeling better?" Maurice asked.

"Much," Belle said. "It must have just been the heat of the day." Never mind that it was October and this morning her breath had steamed up the crisp air. "It's happened before, but I don't think it's anything serious."

"If you say so, Belle," Maurice said. "Did you get anything at the market?"

"Nothing except some bread and the book Madame Hoen gave me," Belle said, chopping up vegetables for soup. "I left before Gast- before the huntsmen came back." If she'd been facing her father, she would have seen a sharp look at her reluctance to say Gaston's name. Maurice twiddled his thumbs, and cleared his throat quietly.

"Belle, have your feelings for Gaston changed since we last spoke?"

She was so surprised she nearly chopped the end of her finger off. "Papa!" she gasped. "What on earth gave you that idea?"

"You seem more nervous about discussing him lately, and you've been avoiding saying his name." Maurice chuckled a little. "Obviously I can see from _that_ reaction you haven't had second thoughts."

"No," Belle said. "I have _definitely_ not had second thoughts." She kept chopping the vegetables, trying to think of a way to tell Maurice about what had happened. "It's just so _strange_. You remember how we used to be friends when we were younger. Before he lost his mind to guns," she snorted. "And lately he's been trying to get back into my good graces, I think. It was nice for a while. You know I've been . . . you know it's been a while since he's actually spoken to me. Like a person." Maurice wisely said nothing, waiting for Belle to tell him in her own time. She laid down the knife quietly. 

"But then . . . well, he came over when you were away. He asked me to marry him."

"And you turned him down?" Maurice asked. 

"Of course I did!" Belle exclaimed. "I can't marry somebody I don't love, can I? Besides, he had practically the whole village outside waiting to marry us. I could see the priest from the window."

"That was presumptuous of him," Maurice said. 

"Not to mention rude." She dumped the vegetables into the pot and filled it with water slowly, buying time until she had to look at Maurice again. "I mean, I knew he was a little dismissive of me sometimes when we were teenagers, but I thought that was just . . . oh, I don't know what I thought. When he started to get to know me again through books, I thought he was actually trying to be friends again. I mean, I didn't love him as a husband, but I still valued his friendship. Until he tried to get me to marry him without giving me any sort of _choice_ in the matter." She turned around to face Maurice. "Surely I deserve to choose a husband as freely as he deserves to choose a wife? Nobody else seems to see it that way, though. Madame Cotard was barely civil to me today."

"Belle, come here." She walked over beside her father, who clasped her hand in both of his. "You were completely right to reject Gaston. I wish for your sake that you could have been friends still, but if he doesn't respect you, there's no point worrying. It doesn't matter what people think. There's always going to be someone who disagrees with what you believe is right. I just want you to be happy. If that means marrying . . . oh, I don't know, that Beast from your favourite story -"

"Papa, be serious," Belle said, hiding a laugh.

"I am, Belle. If that would make you happy, I'd give you my blessing. If you never marry, that has my blessing too. And if," he said, looking straight into Belle's eyes, "you change your mind and decide to marry Gaston after all . . . as long as you're happy, I'm happy."

"Thank you, Papa," she said. "You know how much you mean to me."

"And how much _you_ mean to _me_ ," he said. Belle leaned over and kissed his forehead. 

"The soup'll be ready in about half an hour," she said. "Shall I go feed Phillipe while we're waiting?"

"No, I'll do it," Maurice said, getting up slowly from the table.

"Papa, will you let me? You've had a long day."

"Is that your way of saying I'm getting older?" Maurice asked, a twinkle in his eye.

"You said it, not me," Belle giggled. "But please, Papa, let me. You _have_ had a long journey."

"Fine," Maurice grumbled. "Although I'm perfectly capable of doing so."

"I know," Belle smiled. "I love you."

"I love you too, Belle." 

She walked out to the stable, and fed Phillipe as promised. She ended up staying longer than she meant, just grooming and talking to the horse. He had been a friend to her almost as long as they'd owned him, and Belle had missed the steadfast horse. He'd been with the family since before her mother died, and she had a few precious memories of her mother riding Phillipe with Belle on her lap. 

By the time Belle walked back into the house, the sky was coloured with a dramatic autumn sunset. Maurice had already eaten and gone to bed, and Belle quietly gave herself some soup and settled down to read her book. She'd missed the quiet, calm evenings with Maurice in the house.

They wouldn't have an evening like that ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always love how supportive Maurice is given the time period. And just their relationship in general. I definitely think that if Belle wanted to become an old spinster and stay with Maurice all her life (although let's be real, she desperately wants more than that) that they'd be really happy together.
> 
> And Gaston here is basically a Nice Guy (TM). There's a good post about it here (http://onelazyfeminist.tumblr.com/post/75292057920/my-sister-oh-my-god-me-what-my-sister-i-just). For what I have planned, his overtly bullying character doesn't quite fit. Don't be fooled, though - he's just as conniving and misogynistic as the film. You'll see.


	4. Chapter Three - Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which certain actions have certain consequences. Warning for a character being taken to a mental institution against their will, although this is not onscreen. Spoiler-y full note at the end.

**Chapter Three**

**Consequences**

Belle had thought that a lack of chatter from Madame Cotard would be the only consequence of Gaston's rejection. She'd hoped, almost naively, that when Maurice came back everybody would remember that fathers are generally present to give away their daughters, and that permission is needed for men to court, and all kinds of other things which normally Belle would shudder to even say. Now, she clung to these trappings of custom that painted a father as custodian of his child as if they could protect her from Gaston's advances. 

Of course, they couldn't.

He wasn't enough of a fool to come round to her house again, now that Maurice was back home. But there were other ways he could pressure Belle into it - ways that maybe even he hadn't thought of at first. It started, as it always did, with the women of the village. Belle had known deep down that it was only a matter of time until Madame Cotard's way of thinking spread to her friends, and then her acquaintances, and then everybody else. The baker's wife, always quiet when talking to Belle, had first stopped smiling, then stopped greeting, and eventually stopped serving her altogether. When Belle asked the baker why Marie was being so strange, he merely shrugged and mentioned something about "Neighbourhood gossips being what they are."

The barber's wife, the hatter's assistant, the numerous women that Belle passed everyday or bought food and material from; one by one, they all turned to stony silence when Belle appeared on the scene. The only thing worse than their silence was the fact that many didn't even stop until she was out of earshot before gossiping about her again. 

"A beauty, yes, but a funny girl," Belle heard the day after Maurice got back.

"Turned down a man she'd known since childhood - and one with good prospects, too," they whispered a few days later.

"One of those _city girls_ , too good for our Gaston," Madame Cotard had sneered cruelly one day. "Look at her, walking around with her head held high. She thinks she's so high-and-mighty because she reads novels. Absolutely shameful."

That one had stung more than Belle liked to admit. She used to read books in the Cotard's shop while Maurice talked business, swinging her feet to and fro from a high chair or table. She'd always loved books, but when Gaston became more engrossed in hunting as they grew older, Belle pushed herself deeper into fiction. She'd never thought of herself as better than the villagers - although it was difficult to think seriously about somebody's cow not giving milk when there was a fair maiden who needed to climb a mountain to save a prince waiting in Belle's room. 

"Papa," she'd asked later that night, "do you think I think I'm too good for Gaston?" He'd been reading a manual about mechanical advances at the time, and he slowly laid it down and took of his glasses, rubbing gently at his temples.

"Where on earth would you get an idea like that?" Maurice had said. 

"Oh - no reason," Belle had said quickly, turning back to the book Madame Hoen had given her. 

"Have people in the village been saying things about you?" 

"When _don't_ they say things about me?" Belle had said, trying to pass it off with a laugh.

"Has this been bothering you, Belle?" he had asked, a hint of darkness in his voice.

"Not really," she'd said quickly. Too quickly. "It's just some of the women. They don't approve of my choice."

"Hmm," Maurice had said, picking his glasses back up. "It's none of their business. But if they start bothering you again, Belle, tell me. I don't want them being too hostile. Husbands listen to their wives, after all."

Belle understood. If women like Madame Cotard continued being vocal about their dislike of her, Maurice might have problems buying and selling stock. They'd made a comfortable amount of money from the fair, but not enough to move. And besides, Maurice wasn't getting any younger - it wouldn't be fair if he had to move away at his age.

Belle decided to simply not tell her father about the rumours after that night. Her only female friend in the village had quickly become Madame Hoen. More and more often, after a painfully silent trip to buy food Belle would spend hours at the bookshop, just so she could delay the walk back across the square. They often sat together over cooling cups of tea, quietly discussing the situation.

"Is this what you meant when you said Gaston could make life difficult for me?" Belle asked.

"This isn't something he's done," Madame Hoen said. "It's because of his actions, but this was done by the women. If Gaston was going to do something, you'd be feeling a lot of pressure."

"Thanks, that makes me feel so much better," Belle spat. 

"That's not what I meant!" she said. "I'm sorry."

"No, _I'm_ sorry," Belle said, rubbing her eyes wearily. "It's just . . . it's just been a lot to deal with. I don't want this hurting Papa any more than it already has. He says that if Madame Cotard and co. keep this up, he'll say something, but I really don't want him too."

"He's just trying to help -"

"I don't need help!" Belle shouted. She shot out her chair, grabbing her basket and shawl. The air had a definite bite in it now, and she needed to keep out the chill. "I need him to stay away from them." She could see the change in Madame Hoen's face when she realised what Belle was remembering.

"Belle, that's not going to happen again -"

But she was already gone, hurrying down the street as fast as she could go. Tears burned in the back of her throat, and out the corner of her eye Belle could see a familiar figure in hunters' red leaning against the door to the public house.

That had been yesterday. Now, Belle lay silent in her bed staring at the wooden ceiling, coloured with the glory of sunrise. Her curtains had never kept out sunlight, but Belle had always been able to fall asleep easily. It used to be a joke between her parents, where they'd find Belle sleeping next. The oddest place, so they had liked to say, was halfway up a tree. She couldn't remember it, but apparently Maurice had needed to climb up himself and carry her down. She smiled slightly - not at the actual event, which she had forgotten long ago - but at the memory of her mother telling the story. She had precious few such memories.

She stretched out in the bed, then quickly, trying not to think about it to much, threw back the covers and got dressed almost at lightening speed. Shivering a little from the cool morning air, Belle splashed some cold water on her face from the ewer in the corner, and wrapped her shawl around her. She opened her curtains, allowing the full spectrum of colour to flood in her bedroom, and tidied her bed. Glancing at the sun, she saw she had a few minutes until she needed to be downstairs. Properly smiling now, Belle picked up her book from the table by her bed. _Who ever said books were pointless things for women to read?_ she thought.

Suddenly, even before she'd flicked open to where she left off last night, Belle felt the strange humming sound again. It was louder than the last time, a few weeks ago, and as it increased in intensity she dropped her book to the floor. Her head was spinning round and round, like when she used to roll down hills as a child. The noise flooding through her ears was so loud she didn't even hear her book clatter against the floorboards. Belle raised her hand to her head, the cool touch of her fingers strangely alien, trying to steady herself. _No, no, no!_ she heard someone say - the same voice she'd heard weeks ago, after talking to Maurice about his journey. Her shawl fell away from her shoulders, and as the cool air hit the back of her neck, the ringing and the spinning and the buzzing faded away to nothing.

Breathing heavily, Belle slowly righted herself again, until the shawl was back around her and the book was safely on the table. What did this mean? Was it just the stress of the last few weeks catching up to her?

"Yes," she said decisively to the empty room. "That's all it is. Just stress." She went down the stairs at her usual pace, determined to carry on normally, when Belle noticed the front door was open. She could hear loud voices and feet stamping outside. She glanced at the table, where she saw a half-empty bowl of gruel and a spoon abandoned there mid-meal. Fear spiked in her belly, and she rushed over to the front door.

"Hello? What's going on?" It looked like half the men from the village were outside her house, hanging around awkwardly. When they saw her, most of them started guiltily and left. Out the corner of her eye, she thought she could see Gaston, a strange look on his face, but Belle had passed over him before she had time to analyse the expression. She caught sight of the baker, standing by the water wheel leading to their front door. "Monsieur, where's my father?"

He glanced at the small group of men beside him, and turned to face Belle. "Belle, didn't you hear what happened to your father last night?"

"No," she said. She could almost feel the blood draining out her face.

"Well, he - he came into the bar, as he normally does. Everything was normal at first, getting a drink, talking to us - just his usual routine. Then Gaston came in."

Subtly, Belle reached behind her to grab onto the doorframe for extra support. "What happened?"

"Your father . . . I don't really know how to say this, Belle, but he took one look at Gaston and he fell to the floor. In a fit."

There it was, the three words that Belle had been dreading to hear. "How long did it last?" she heard herself asking. 

"A few minutes," the baker said, focusing on the ground instead of looking at Belle's face. "When he came to, he just beetled out of there. Somebody must have contacted Monsieur d'Arc, because when I woke up this morning most of the men were coming here to -"

"To what? Help my father?" Belle spat. "I'm not a fool, monsieur. I know they came to watch." She suppressed a sob rising at the back of her throat - these were men she'd known for ten years, men she'd grown up next to, bartered with, bought food from, danced with at holy days . . . and they were willing to watch her father be taken by Monsieur d'Arc. She wasn't sure if she felt relieved or betrayed when the baker didn't respond.

"Didn't you hear the noise when they arrived?" he asked after a moment. "They were making enough noise to raise the dead out there, at least until he was loaded into the -" He cut himself off abruptly. 

"I was asleep," Belle said slowly. 

"I'm sorry, Belle," he said quietly. "Hopefully they won't keep him for too long. You remember their decision last time. You'll get by for a few days." He turned and left Belle standing in the doorframe. She watched him walk towards the bridge until he disappeared from view, the only man in the village who'd had the decency to tell her what was going on. 

Numb, she turned back into the house, shutting the door carefully behind her. She pressed her back against the solid wood, willing herself to stay strong. But then she caught sight of Maurice's breakfast, only half-eaten, and it was as if something cracked inside of her. She crumpled to the floor weeping bitterly into the shawl that had been her mother's before it was Belle's, pressing her back against the door that her father had modified, utterly alone in a house that was now only hers.

She didn't leave the house for the rest of the day. The townspeople would only have been another reminder of the last time Maurice was taken away.

***

A week had passed after Maurice was taken to Monsieur d'Arc's lunatic asylum. It was a week Belle could only describe as being sent from Hell. The women in the village, now that her father was gone, seemed perfectly willing to verbally attack Belle in the streets. It grew harder for her to find shops willing to serve her. The first time a gangly shop-boy called Maurice a lunatic in Belle's hearing, the only thing stopping her from getting into a brawl was the fact that her reputation would sink even lower, and even fewer shops would let her in.

It killed Belle that she had to think about her reputation when they insulted her father. She'd never wanted to be the person who only cared about what other people thought of her. But increasingly, it was becoming the only way she'd survive. She knew why this was happening to her; she'd broken their rules about marriages and betrothals, and now she was reaping what she'd sown. She just didn't expect it to be such a bitter harvest.

When the bank sent their first letter, Belle thought they'd understand her circumstances. When they sent their second letter, she realised her mistake. The pipe burst shorty afterwards. Then Phillipe fell ill for a spell. And the hens that clucked around her feet every morning, the ones that Belle and Maurice had never really relied on for money, since his tinkering paid most bills, stopped laying. 

"I don't know what to do, Madame Hoen," Belle said about three weeks after Maurice had been taken away. "It would have been bad enough if it was _just_ the bank, or _just_ Phillipe, or _just_ the hens, but it had to be all of them at once!" She set her jaw. 

"I don't know what you can do, Belle," Madame Hoen said. "All I can do is sympathise, since you won't let me help you -"

"I can't accept your charity," Belle interrupted.

"- and you won't come and stay with me."

"That would just make it worse. This isn't about them hating my father. This is about my reputation." Belle snorted. "As if I ever cared about it before."

"I don't know what to say. There's nothing you can do about it now."

"There is." Madame Hoen's brow crinkled. Belle pulled her shawl a little tighter around her, caught her lip between her teeth.

"I can't get my reputation back," Belle said. "But I can try and make it respectable again. I can try to save the house. I can try to stop the money problems."

"No!" Madame Hoen cried out as she understood. "No, Belle you can't!"

"I have to," Belle said. "I don't have a choice."

"You always have a choice!" As Madame Hoen paled in horror, her curls only emphasising the unrest on her face, Belle felt the same buzzing in her head again. 

"I have to do this," Belle said, as her head started swimming, as her ears rang, as she heard a voice in her head cry out so loudly it eclipsed the words she was saying.

"I have to marry Gaston."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maurice is taken to the Maison Des Lunes; Belle wakes up immediately after he is put in the carriage. 
> 
> ***
> 
> Some notes of historical/medical interest: I don't know how banks worked in France during this ambiguous time period, but if you're here for historical accuracy then you are in the wrong place, my friend. Likewise, I don't know how asylums worked, but it's literally just there for the story, kay?
> 
> Also, Maurice's admission is because of a seizure. It's not unreasonable for an otherwise healthy person to have a seizure or two in their lifetime and not be epileptic. NHS choices (where I got my information) says "Some people may only have a single seizure at some point during their life. If they do not have a high risk of having further seizures, they would not be regarded as having epilepsy." I am not a medical professional so don't blindly believe something an 18-year-old girl wrote, but for the purposes of this story Maurice doesn't suffer from frequent/severe seizures and so will not be described as epileptic.


	5. Chapter Four - The Happy Couple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's a wedding, and a mysterious shadow with bright eyes lurking in the woods.

**Chapter Four**

**The Happy Couple**

It took less time than Belle had thought possible for the wedding to be prepared. She supposed she shouldn't really have been surprised - after all, Gaston had been able to prepare a forced wedding fairly quickly after her father left. Only a week after she'd walked up to him in the middle of the street and quietly asked for a moment's talk, Madame Hoen and herself were sitting in Belle's kitchen, the night before her wedding. 

"I still can't believe you're doing this, Belle," she said. 

"I know," Belle said. "It feels like some nightmare I'm just waiting to wake up from." She allowed a tear or two to fall down her cheeks. It wasn't like she was in the village - here, she didn't need to hide her true feelings.

"You shouldn't feel that way about a husband. Even if it's not one you particularly like, you shouldn't feel afraid -"

"I'm not afraid of him." 

Madame Hoen looked up, puzzled. Belle smiled bitterly.

"He's not . . . he's despicable, for making me do this, but he wouldn't force me into other aspects of love." She shuddered at the mere thought. "He's not _that_ much of a monster. I'm prepared to deal with him, if I have to. And who knows, maybe . . . Maybe he won't be a bad companion." Belle suddenly laughed. "I can't believe I just said that."

"You _were_ friends, once," Madame Hoen said. "But if you're not afraid of him, why exactly does this feel so nightmarish?"

" _Besides_ the fact that I'm marrying a man I don't love, in order to uphold a reputation I don't care about, so I can save a house I'm not even going to live in anymore?" Belle paused. "I just always thought that when I married, it'd be . . . for love. Not for one of the other reasons you told me about. And doing this feels . . . it feels like the coward's way out. I can't _make_ these people like me again, so I just did exactly what they wanted me to do. I wasn't brave enough to go out there, and be different - like you."

"I disagree, Belle." Madame Hoen reached out and grasped Belle's hand. "In the position I was in, leaving was a lot easier. I think what you're doing is incredibly brave."

Belle stood up and embraced her friend. "Thanks," she said. "You should probably go, now. I want to say goodbye to the house alone, if that's alright. I won't have time tomorrow."

"Take all the time you need," Madame Hoen smiled. "I'll see you at the wedding." She left the house quietly, shutting the door behind her with a soft click. 

Belle leaned back against the table, absorbed in thoughts about tomorrow. The celebrations would go on for some time into the night, if she remembered rightly from the last wedding she'd attended. There would be no opportunity for her to sneak away and revive herself with a book. She'd have to smile, and act happy. She'd have to endure the neighbourhood gossips speculating that she'd only married Gaston to save her reputation - despite the fact it was true. And she'd have to marry Gaston.

"At least I have Papa's blessing," Belle murmured thankfully. She started to tidy away the dishes, and sweep the floor. These were all things she wouldn't have time for in the morning, and wouldn't be able to do ever again in this house. She'd always known a marriage would have meant she needed to leave her father's home, but never like this. Belle couldn't help thinking about what her wedding _should_ have been like. Still the same fine blue dress hanging up in her room, no doubt - she didn't have the money or inclination for anything fancy. Still the same house she was leaving, and probably the same people she was leaving with. But her father would've been there. They would have been happy. And she almost certainly wouldn't have been marrying Gaston.

Suddenly, a thought hit her like a bolt from the blue. She had been alone and vulnerable the last time Gaston proposed. He would have needed to make her isolated again, in order for her to agree. Rumours would have done a lot, but there was one other factor Belle could think of, the reason that she was so lonely tonight and every night for the past two weeks.

"The _swine_ ," she hissed venomously. "The utter, _utter_ swine." Determination took over her features, and she swished up to her room, a plan already forming in her brain. There was nothing she could do about the wedding, unless she wanted to be completely ostracised. But if Belle was right in her conclusion (and she was sure she was), there was everything she could do to make Gaston confess his plot. And then?

Then she could make their married life the hell she'd been living for so long already.

***

The sun had set almost an hour ago, and Belle had a ring on her finger that made her feel like an imposter. It hadn't been as bad as she'd feared - Gaston, to his credit, looked less like he was winning a prize and more like his plan was coming together. She preferred manipulation to outright gloating, any day. And the gossips of the village had actually wished her well, which surprised her. 

But it was still a wedding to Gaston. He'd pulled her close for their first kiss as a married couple - their first kiss ever, in fact. He was harsh, brash, everything she hated. But he had still been her friend once, and Belle had seen in his eyes that he wasn't just victorious, but happy after they signed the contract. She hated that she knew him so well. She wanted to be able to think of him as a story-book villain, one that could be easily defeated. She wanted to be able to hate him as fully as he deserved, and not just slightly, tinged with sympathy at their shared past. But if she could recognise his happiness, he could tell when she'd had enough.

So he'd shoved her away discreetly, and she was walking - alone - to his house. The stars were just out, shimmering silently up above her. Belle shivered. The first snow of the year had come and gone long ago, and since then they'd been lucky enough to only have frosted windows in the mornings, instead of huge snowdrifts. She thought almost wistfully of her wool dress she usually wore in winter. Instead, here she was shaking in her best dress, which was thin and lacked petticoats. Belle shrugged slightly, and continued along the dry path to Gaston's house. She wrapped her arms around her body, rubbing her hands against them absently. The walk would warm her up. And she'd rather be too cold on the way to a house, than too hot in the middle of a noisy crowd of people. 

Belle heard the melancholy hoot of an owl - the only other sound apart from her wedding disturbing the still night. It raised the hairs on the back of her neck - or maybe that was just the cold. She continued on her way, the sounds of revelry gradually fading away into the distance. While Gaston's family historically owned the tavern where the village was celebrating, they didn't actually _live_ up the stairs like some thought they did. That space was now reserved for Gaston's hunting prizes. He lived in a well-sized house on the main road of the town, where the two of them had spent several hours playing together, back when they were younger. Belle knew that the back door was the only one that opened properly, so she was walking behind the houses rather than on the main road. She ran her thumb over her wedding ring again, pausing to look at it. The plain silver band glistened in the moonlight. It felt so strange to have something on her left hand, almost weighing her down. She'd get used to it, Belle supposed. She'd have to, now.

A branch snapped somewhere to Belle's right, and instantly she froze. She knew something had been wrong ever since she left the reception. Without moving her body an inch, she silently turned her head to where the sound had come from. The woods, dark and mysterious in the nighttime, loomed several feet away. There was nothing wrong with them in the day - they were just woods. But everything looks different at night, Belle thought. An icy wind blew from behind her, towards the tree line, and she shivered again. Quietly, she took a few small steps towards the forest - whatever had snapped the branch, so Belle reasoned, clearly knew she was there, and now had her scent. Getting closer to figure out what it was wouldn't do any harm. 

The owl hooted again, but Belle came to a standstill almost before the sound had stopped. She wasn't sure - it was almost too dark to tell, really - but she could have sworn that she saw something _move_. The stupidity of her plan to get closer finally hit her. Yes, it was almost November, but that didn't mean things like bears or wolves had stopped hunting. Another branch snapped, louder this time, and Belle was rooted to the spot with fear. She couldn't have moved even if the thing leapt out at her, she thought. As soon as the thought came to her, Belle could see the dark shadow moving closer to the tree line. It paused, and seemed to look at Belle. _Sizing me up, probably,_ she thought. At that, courage finally came back into her, and her body changed slightly - she held herself just as firmly as before, but out of bravery rather than fear. She tilted her head defiantly, although her heart was hammering away in her chest. The creature's head seemed to lift up. She saw it's eyes. But they weren't the usual animal brown. They were a bright sky-blue.

"Belle!"

"Gaston!" Belle nearly jumped out her skin. "What are you doing here?"

"Everybody's left," he said. "I thought you'd take this route home." Belle clenched her jaw at his tone. He pulled an arm over her, his hands clawing at her should like a vice, and started walking them both back to the house. Belle glanced back over her shoulder once, but the shadow-bear-monster-thing, whatever it was, had vanished.

They walked to Gaston's house in silence. He unlocked the back door, but blocked Belle's way to getting in, holding his arms out expectantly. 

"Don't," Belle said, but he ignored her anyway, picking her up in his arms and carrying her over the threshold. She held herself stiffly, and Gaston put her back down again almost as soon as they crossed over. While he locked the door, she lit a few candles. Belle wanted to be able to see his face when he answered her questions.

"Shall we sit?" she asked. He did as she asked, slightly confused. She hated how much she could read his face.

"Is there any reason you want us . . . sitting?" 

"I want you to tell me something, and I don't want it to be a lie," she said. 

"We don't have to be sitting down for that," he said. She shot him a withering look, and Gaston clammed up.

"I saw you with the rest of the village the day my father was taken away," she said. "I don't think you saw me see you, but I did, and I just need to know - _why?_ "

"Why?" he repeated dumbly. "Why what?"

"Why did you get Monsieur D'Arc to take him away?" she spat. Gaston's face appeared expressionless for a moment, but then a small half-smile cracked. Fury simmered low inside her. That he could betray Maurice, after all the hell she went through last time, and sit there and _smile_ about it . . .

"Belle, I didn't get him taken away." The smugness had come back into his voice. "I was surprised, yes, but I didn't do it." But Belle could see the grin on his face, and she could tell he was lying. 

"You're unbelievable," she said, throwing back her chair. 

"Where are you going?" he asked, standing up as well. 

"Bed," she said, marching into the living room.

"The bedroom's upstairs -"

"Not to bed with _you_. Listen, Gaston, you know perfectly well I don't love you. You knew that when I came to see you. And if you try to 'persuade' me, well," she smiled - a dark, mirthless smile Gaston had never seen on her - "don't forget when I was thirteen and I managed to knock you out cold for twenty minutes."

He flushed a little at the memory - probably because he remembered why she'd punched him in the first place. He'd gone to tell her they couldn't be friends anymore, now that he was a hunter - a man - and she was just a little girl. When Belle had seen him next, his broken nose was still bright red, and the bruises under his eyes turning green and yellow. 

"Go upstairs," he said - not menacingly. "Take the guest room. You'll come around eventually. And when you do, I'll be waiting." 

Belle walked slowly past him, towards the stairs. She had almost reached the first step when he grabbed her hand. The metal pressed against her fingers almost painfully, but Belle didn't say a word. "If you want help, unpacking -"

"I don't need your help," she said brusquely. "Goodnight, Gaston." 

And with that, she hurried up the rest of the stairs, shutting herself in the guest room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if people in *ambiguous time-period* France had wedding rings or not, but I don't really care. And, as you may have noticed, I have taken some liberties with Gaston's character. He's still a scumbag, just a slightly more layered and nuanced one, now. And you may well ask who the mysterious 'shadow-bear-monster-thing' with blue eyes is, but that would be spoilers, wouldn't it?


	6. Chapter Five - The Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet the Beast.

**Chapter Five**

**The Beast**

_Cold._

Snow in the fur. It sinks deep, it hits the skin. The skin flushes red, although it can't be seen through the layers of hair. The crunch under the padded paws, the claws slice through it easily. The huff of breath in the air. No green in sight. There has been no green for longer than can be remembered. There were times when green could be seen, but in memories it is a pale, muddy colour. A woman in a dress the colour of the grass beneath her, holding a boy. His hair is the colour of her dress, of the grass, of the leaves in the trees. His hair is not green, but another colour. Another that has been lost.

Other things have been lost, too. There were people in a castle; now there are different things. There is a short squat thing that nagged and nagged. There is a short round white thing that mothered and clucked. There is a tall spindly thing with heat and warmth and lights at the top. Things stopped moving a while ago. Not as long ago as the colours. They maybe stopped moving when the hunting began. 

Needed to eat. Needed to run. Needed to _hunt_. It had been too much work, to stop it from happening. So hunting started. Not like it used to be, on a horse with a gun and a man to clap someone on the back. But like the hunted used to run away. Soft-footed through the woods, quiet, quiet, listen, smell, then chase. Chase through the forest though the breath burns, though the legs ache, though the eyes stream water that blurs the vision. It is in nature to hunt. Nature is all there is, now.

When it is caught, kill it. 

The killing isn't good. It sickens, but it is necessary. The chase is better. No need to think during the chase. But when it is over, thinking is needed. Whether to eat now or later, whether to drag it back or leave it to rot, how to clean up afterwards. Cleaning up isn't needed, but it still happens. It is the only which happens now that happened even before the colours were lost.

_It's cold._

Inside, it has been cold since the different things stopped moving. No heat and light left, nobody to start the heat or ignite the light. Doesn't matter. Eyesight is better than it once was. Fur is thicker than it once was. Companionship? Companionship isn't needed to survive. 

Everything is blue, since the things stopped moving. No yellow. Just blue and grey. No heat. Just cold, and loneliness.

Loneliness has been there since the colours were lost. Since before they were lost. It simply got worse when the flower appeared. It should have been destroyed long ago, but the scent is intoxicating and it has been intact for too long for destruction to change anything, now. 

It has been too long for anything to change now. The chance has gone, slipped away like water down a hill. Or from between something - not claws, but similar.

The realisation used to result in a feeling. Not a feeling of nature. It made a mighty roar, and a heartless whimper, when it was felt. Now it has been too long. Nothing can be felt, now, except for the cold. The cold that has always been there.

The cold that has been there from the day the colours were lost, standing on a bridge while a woman laughed and cackled.

_I'm so cold._

It is time to hunt. The snow has fallen again. There is a stag, large, meaty. Hunger nips at the stomach like a wolf cub nips at their brothers, and the chase begins. Past a frozen lake, the ice thin in the very centre. Past a small clearing. Over small hills, through depths of snow. The stag stumbles briefly, and it is time to pounce, it is time to pounce -

But then.

A humming crashes in on the head. The noise drowns out the sounds of the stag, fleeing for its life. Ears ring, vision blurs, in a way it hasn't for an age. _How could this happen? This can't happen! He shouldn't be able to change this!_ The voice sounds familiar, but it can't be placed. A ripping, shredding sound accompanies it. It is reminiscent of paper, of books, of stories -

The humming stops as quickly as it began, in the head. In his head. There is no movement - not right, it's changed. He doesn't move. There is a Beast, standing in the cold. No, not anymore.

The Beast stood, dazed in the late autumn snow.

***

He raced back to the castle as quickly as he could. He wasn't a fool; he knew that in one sense, nothing had changed. He still saw green, yellow and red as the same faded shade. The servants in the castle were still inanimate, as they had been since he started hunting large game. And the curse was still very much in place - his heightened senses, fur, and fangs were proof enough.

But at the same time, everything had changed. 

He leapt up the many flights of stairs to his quarters, suddenly desperate, after almost ten years, to see the rose that was the symbol of his imprisonment. It frightened him how easily he'd lost his humanity, his ability to think, now he _could_ think about it again. The Beast couldn't even remember the last time he'd had a conscious thought, or when he'd last referred to himself as 'he'. Simultaneously, he was almost undone at how quickly he'd found his reasoning again. 

If all it took for him to recover his reason was a simple voice in the woods, could he speak again as he used to? The Beast barely dared think it. Hesitantly, he tried to say the first thing that came into his head. _Once upon a time, there lived a young prince in a shining castle._

All that came out, however, was a long, low moan, like an animal. He fell silent immediately. It seemed that not everything available to humanity was available to him just now. He was still a monster.

_But at least I have the self-awareness to recognise I am one,_ he thought. His stomach grumbled slightly. On instinct, the Beast almost flew down the steps to the castle door.

_Wait!_ he thought suddenly. _If I hunt like a monster, will I lose the thoughts of a man?_ He paused, and slowly paced up and down the hallway. _I can't remember when I lost these thoughts. I don't **think** it was when I started hunting. But what if it was? No, no, it can't have been. I remember -_

He remembered the disapproval of the servants before he left to hunt. Somehow, they knew what he was going to do. It was maybe five or six years after the curse began. The short and squat one (he couldn't even begin to remember the names of the objects the servants were turned into, let alone their given names) had tried to fuss over it, but the tall thin one with lights had pulled him back with fear. The round white one had merely looked at him. Guilt at her gaze had pursued the Beast up until the moment of the kill. When he returned, no longer hungry but filled with a yet deeper hunger, none of them had moved from the positions he had seen them in last.

_See,_ he thought. _You remember the guilt. You still had reason then. Hunting won't make you lose it._

_But how will I speak again?_ he wondered as he raced out the front doors, back into the woods to find the stag again.

_How will I break this curse?_

***

He was less prepared for the second time the dizziness hit him. He'd theorised that it had been a message from the enchantress who put him under this curse, one final chance to redeem himself. She'd seen him about to kill the stag, somehow, and given him a second chance. But the second time it happened, he was only just awake, staring at the sunrise from the balcony of his chambers. 

After it was over, he'd shook himself violently, trying to rid himself of the sensation. He couldn't figure out what had happened to him. Obviously it had nothing to do with _him_ this time. Unless he'd missed the girl who was supposed to save him. 

_Nonsense,_ he thought. _There'd be more of a sign if something that major had happened._ When the cart for the lunatic asylum passed his castle later that day, he gave it little thought. His improved hearing meant he could detect things miles away, and nobody had come across the castle since the curse. The wretches were probably better off without his interference anyway.

He settled back down to what had become his life, lately; waiting for the girl to show up. He didn't want to risk losing his ability to reason, so he went hunting as rarely as he could. He knew there was no point in attempting to clean up the castle, given his stature and sharp claws, so he could only hope that the girl, whoever she was, wouldn't fuss about it. He had _tried_ to clean up, soon after recovering his awareness. It had only resulted in him breaking a small ornament. Furious, he had been about to snap the feather duster he was using in two, when an awful thought occurred to him. Until the servants started moving about again, he had no way of knowing which objects had been people and which hadn't. This reminder of the curse, of all its limitations, had just made him more furious, and after dropping the feather duster he'd ran to his chambers and destroyed some more furniture. 

It was human nature to destroy. He didn't worry about losing humanity there.

The third, and worst episode, happened a week after the second. He was hunting again, and had paused to cool down in a winter stream. The dizziness seemed to hit him out of nowhere, but that was like the previous two episodes. The Beast steeled himself to just bear it, but the intensity overwhelmed him - his ears ringing, head spinning - and he fell over into the stream. As soon as his head fell under the water, a long, agonised cry racketed through his head. It deafened him to other concerns, like the blood rushing in his ears, or the water gurgling around him. His lungs began to burn from holding his breath on instinct, and everything, it seemed, was a cacophony of pain. When he couldn't take it anymore, and burst through the water to take a breath, the pain faded away. Well, not all of it - his ears rang and his lungs ached from holding his breath for so long - but that peculiar humming had stopped. The Beast didn't even attempt to pursue his quarry, who had long since evaded him. Instead, he made his way back to the castle, shivering pitifully. 

_This is ridiculous,_ he thought once he was in the hallway again. _Even if this has something to do with the curse, these - headaches, or whatever they are - make no sense! I've done nothing except nearly kill a stag - what can this possibly have to do with me?_ He growled a little in irritation. _And more to the point, where on earth is the one who's supposed to save me from this? Where's the girl?_

His question was answered only a few weeks later.

It was a usual winter's evening for the Beast. He wasn't hunting prey again, just wandering through the woods. Since the first snowfall the day he'd recovered his ability to reason, there hadn't been so much as a frost. It put him on edge a little, all this waiting. Waiting for the snow to stay. Waiting for the girl to appear. Waiting for his curse to be lifted. He'd been wandering around for at least a few hours, and in the back of his mind he knew he should be keeping an eye out for the village only a mile or so away from his castle. But he was so caught up in his more morbid thoughts that without paying attention to where he was going, the Beast stepped on a twig that snapped with a loud noise. The gasp that followed it, however, caught his attention quickly. He looked through the trees to the first few buildings of the town, where he saw a woman standing as if frozen a few feet away.

She had long brown hair that fluttered slightly in the breeze, and her arms were clasped around her body - probably in an attempt to keep warm, the Beast thought. The dress she was wearing didn't look like it was meant to be worn on a evening like this - it was too thin. Probably her best, since this was a relatively poor village. But the thing that really caught his attention was her eyes. They were fixed on the woods with curiosity, and he could almost see the moment when she decided to edge closer. In the same instant, a chilly wind blew straight past her, carrying her scent to him. He was curious - why was she moving _towards_ the woods? Surely she knew what was in there? So the Beast, in turn, padded quietly to the tree line, another branch snapping under his feet.

Instantly the woman froze, and he could almost smell the fear radiating off her. He heard the small, stifled gasp she gave when she made out his dim silhouette. The Beast paused. He didn't want to frighten her, at least not anymore than she already was. But the funny thing was, no sooner had he thought the words than she held herself high, bravery flashing in her eyes. He knew she could see him - not clearly, obviously, but she clearly knew he was there. So the Beast allowed himself to do what he'd been wanting to for an age, and lifted up his head to gaze directly at her. 

"Belle!"

The woman jumped as a tall man laid an arm on her, and the Beast raced back into territory closer to his castle, spooked. He'd never, not in however many years it had been since he was cursed, let himself get so close to being caught. He could only guess what sort of hunting expedition the men in that village might put on if they knew of him - how irresistible the challenge would be for them. His heart pounded in his chest, only partly from the exertion it took for him to get away as fast as he could. Eventually he slowed, once he could see the turrets of the castle gleaming in the autumn moonlight. His thoughts were only half directed towards his own safety, however. _That's the first human being I've seen in . . . what, ten years?_ he thought. _And she saw me too. Could **she** be the one to save me? The one who's going to free me from this curse? No, that's impossible - she's a peasant. I'm a prince of France! There's no way I could love her._ He resolved to forget her immediately, and tried to fill his mind with other concerns - like whether or not the castle servants would spring back to animation any time soon.

But no matter what the Beast pretended to think, he could't stop thinking about the woman for the rest of the night. 

_Her name suits her. Belle._ It was the last conscious thought he had before he fell asleep that night, in his cold, lonely castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About time we heard from this guy, don't you think? 
> 
> You know, I think I'm most nervous about the changes I've made to the Beast's character. Like I said, this is AU, so he's a little different to how he is in the movie. But we'll get to that later on. 
> 
> Main things I want to comment on: servants are gone?!? Well, not exactly. This is just part of the AU, and based on something I heard one of the creators say a while ago (but I forget who exactly). They stated that as the Beast fell further into the curse, he lost his humanity more and more. I started to wonder if maybe the servants would lose their ability to move and speak, and then this happened. :/ On the same note, the Beast has lost his ability to reason like a human because of this creator's note. He also sees colour the way dogs can - or in other words, since the transformation he became red-green colourblind. Source for the colour wheel/article I used to reference this fact here (https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/canine-corner/200810/can-dogs-see-colors).
> 
> And the three nameless servants mentioned are Cogsworth, Mrs. Potts and Lumiere (in that order on first mention).


	7. Chapter Six - Developments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Beast learns a new word, and Things start to Happen.

**Chapter Six**

****Developments** **

Since he'd seen the woman in the woods, the Beast was feeling tentatively . . . not happier, exactly. Happiness wasn't a word he felt he could apply to himself right now. It hurt his head just to think about the correct term for what he was feeling. All he really knew was that it was a positive emotion, one that wasn't despair or indifference, and for that he was grateful. He'd been indifferent for who knew how long, and despair made him feel just as helpless. So even if the woman wasn't the one to set him free - and he seriously doubted that she was - he was grateful to her for exciting this new emotion. Her form had also re-ignited his memories - or rather, his memory. He only had one pre-curse, of a woman holding him in her arms. They were sitting underneath a tree in a garden, and they were talking together. Try as he might, he couldn't remember the words, and he still saw everything in the same faded colours as he saw the world around him. This would always inevitably lead him to thinking about his curse. 

He'd wondered since he got his mind back how long he had left. He knew it was five years into his curse that the servants stopped moving. That had been in winter - deep winter, if he remembered correctly, which he doubted he did. It was late autumn now; possibly early winter, if the wind was biting enough to chill him. Who knew? Maybe he'd only been an animal for a single year. The Beast forced his thoughts to remain at that junction. He knew the short brown ticking thing could have told him if it could talk, but it wasn't even moving. _I don't think I could bear it if I'd lost these thoughts for more than a year,_ he mused. Still, there was no way of knowing at the moment, so he tried not to dwell on it. Instead, he thought on other matters. 

For one, if the servants ever _did_ start moving again, how could he communicate with them if he didn't talk? And for another, how could he hope to make a woman fall in love with him without speaking a language - any language? The Beast remembered enough to know that in his memory of being held, the woman on the grass had been speaking a different language, one he'd understood. It wasn't French, he could tell, but he had no idea what it _was_ , either. _Not an issue for today,_ he admonished. _Focus on what you **might** be able to do._ So he'd devoted his mind, out of practise and inhuman as it was, to relearning to speak. 

It was more frustrating than he'd ever anticipated. To know what he wanted to say, to have the words right there in his head . . . and then to be rewarded with a moan or roar instead. He'd tried long-memorised Bible verses, fairy tales he knew more about than how to hunt, even the never-ending stream of consciousness that he was stuck with for thoughts. Nothing had worked so far. Inevitably, the Beast would roar in anger and race to the forest to let off steam, but something always drove him to try again. 

And today, as it had been every other day, it was that strange unidentifiable positive emotion that prodded him to try and speak. 

_Once upon a time,_ he thought. What came out was a groan not unlike that of a sleeping dog. 

_For He so loved,_ he attempted, but gave up before even finishing the verse. 

_In the beginning,_ the Beast thought, as a last resort. He growled, the pitch rising slightly, trying to say the words. There was only one sound that came through. 

"Buh." 

He froze. _Was that . . . ? Did I just make a sound?_ He knew quite clearly what it was - the 'b' sound from 'beginning'. _Maybe I've been going about this the wrong way,_ he realised. _Maybe it needs to be something I've heard recently._ With his servants voiceless, his memories lost, and no way for him to hear a human for miles, the Beast could only think of one thing to say. 

"B - Be -" 

He was so close. He closed his eyes, tried to remember how it felt to speak. The smack of lips, the almost smile shape his mouth needed to make, and the flick of the tongue to finish the word. He remembered the man's voice, imagined his mouth moving, and the Beast summoned all his remaining determination, everything that hadn't already been worn away by the curse. And suddenly, he was able to name the emotion that had been following him for the last several weeks. It wasn't something he'd ever thought to feel again. It was hope. And with hope surging in his chest, delicate as a robin's egg, he opened his mouth and breathed the word he'd been harbouring for weeks, barely loud enough for the Beast to hear it himself. 

"Belle." 

*** 

He barely knew what to do with himself, following the breakthrough. Running around on all fours like an animal didn't seem quite right, after he'd suddenly gained the ability to say a word. Nothing had changed immediately afterwards in the household, either. The Beast was almost too giddy to care. _I can speak,_ he'd think, still unable to completely believe it. _I can say her name. That must mean something - it has to!_ He'd had no other luck so far with full words, but he could make several phonetic sounds now he had one word under his belt. A 'g', 'm', and variations on a hard 'k' sound, which on a good day he flattered himself into thinking of as suitable for 'qu'est-ce-que?' once he had the 's' down. An 'ah', 'ay' and 'oh' sound were also available, but he had yet to perfect the nasality with which he knew they should be pronounced. It was slow work. 

Given all that was happening in his head, the Beast barely noticed that the short brown thing stopped ticking one day until he realised that the room was unnaturally silent. His ears pricked up before he realised, his hunters instinct telling him something was off before the rest of his mind caught up. He was in the library, looking at the books his parents had collected over the years. He didn't dare pick one off the shelf, but there was no need. He could already tell that no matter how eloquently he thought, and no matter how many syllables he could mouth, the written word was shut away from him. Anger fluttered within him. Anger was good, he thought to himself. It was better than numbness or despair. Anger didn't leave him feeling empty inside. He spun around, cloak flying around him, when he suddenly recognised the absence of ticking in the room. 

He padded slowly across to the brown thing, on the other side of the room. Sitting down in front of it, the Beast gave it his full attention for the first time in an age. Its hands had stopped at twenty minutes to four - _So I can recognise the time, but not the written word?_ the Beast thought furiously for a moment - and for all the world it looked as though it was a short, squat man with little moustaches and hands on his hips. 

_What are you?_ the Beast wondered. Only the 'r' sound came out when he mumbled the sentence aloud, but if he was hopeful then he thought he heard a 't' as well. _You tell the time,_ he thought. _You ticked. You are . . ._ And suddenly, as if a curtain had been drawn back, he remembered the word. _A clock._ A smile grew across his face. The clock had stopped ticking. Nothing else had stopped working the entire time he'd been under the enchantment. Maybe, just maybe, something was beginning. The same bubbly feeling he'd had since he started to speak, since he'd seen the woman, grew within the Beast. 

He was feeling awfully hopeful these days. 

And over the course of the week, his hope didn't seem to be unfounded. Nothing had moved yet, but little things were changing. When he visited the kitchens on a whim, the stovetop was glowing a dull red in places, although it was barely warm to the touch. The wardrobe in one of the guest bedrooms creaked occasionally, which it hadn't before. The teapot had steam coming out of its spout. The candelabra's candles would flicker when night fell, the barest hint of a glowing ember on the wicks. And the Beast could _name_ the objects as well. Clock, stovetop, wardrobe, teapot, candelabra, duster, footstool, plate, cup . . . It was all unnervingly hope-inducing. If he'd been harder, maybe he would have tried to stop the feeling in its tracks. But the Beast had spent too long without any feeling at all, even if it was only one year he'd spent as a Beast. He welcomed the hope. 

There was one object, however, that didn't change at all. It was the mirror the Enchantress had given him all those years ago. It still lay broken on the ground from where he'd thrown it in a fit of rage during his first summer, when it wouldn't show him the girl to set him free. It was awkward, not having it when she'd specifically told him to take care of it. There was nothing he could do about it now, however. Consequently, he spent more time in the forest than he ever had before, looking out for the woman he'd seen. All the Beast needed was a moment to see her again, and then maybe he could . . . Well, his plan always fell apart there. He couldn't _say_ anything. And he wasn't about to take her to the castle by force. All he could do was hope that things would work themselves out, and that one day he would find her. 

It was shortly before the second snowfall of the year when his hope finally began to sink. It had been weeks since he'd seen the woman - Belle, her name was - and he'd had no further luck in saying any other words. The objects around the house hadn't changed at all other, since that day when the clock stopped ticking. If the Beast hadn't seen evidence of other activity, he might have thought by this stage that it had simply broken down. But nothing else moved. Well, that wasn't quite true, he reminded himself; the candelabra had managed to fan the glow of one wick into a small flame. The Beast lived in constant fear that a stray gust of air would blow the flame out, and it would never light again. But tonight he couldn't bring himself to even worry about that. 

_I've been hoping for so long,_ he thought miserably. Through habit, he mouthed the words loud, but the 'p' of hope came out more like a 'b'. _What's the use? If I can't find her, is there any point in me continuing on?_ His stomach growled, and he remembered he hadn't eaten today. It almost surprised him, but in a detached way. He'd been having trouble remembering to eat and sleep and hunt, lately. _I should hunt,_ he thought, but he didn't move. _I shouldn't give up,_ he knew, but the Beast just couldn't summon the energy needed to keep himself taken care of, to find some food or even go hunting. He fell asleep in front of the stone-cold hearth, not even shivering. 

In the end, it was the light that woke him up. He opened a sleepy eye, and saw the embers of the hearth fire glowing in front of him. He frowned a little, confused, and lifted his head. The candelabra was standing in front of him, its one lit candle held towards the hearth. It didn't seem to notice him. Cautiously, the Beast moved himself to a more upright position. He didn't remember, exactly, but he seemed to know what to do from instinct. He blew gently on the glowing embers, his breath steaming out his mouth. The candelabra jumped back, surprised, but froze when the Beast fixed his gaze on it. 

"Blow?" the Beast asked quietly. Its middle candle bent over - for all the world as if it was nodding - and the Beast blew gently on the fire again. When a tiny flame rose out the grey ashes, lighting his face in weird shadows, the Beast felt a resurgence of the hope that had abandoned him. 

Go," he murmured. The candelabra gestured towards itself questioningly. The Beast shook his head. He attempted a sentence. _I'm going to the woods, to try and find the woman. To find Belle._ "Go . . . bind Belle." _Close enough,_ he decided. He left his castle, seeing no other signs of life aside from the candelabra. He was almost disappointed that the clock hadn't moved first, but he knew he needed to focus on other things at the moment. Like finding the woman who was supposed to set them all free. 

It didn't take him long. He heard her the same instant that he smelt her, fear obvious in her voice and scent. She was closer to his castle than the village, which surprised him, but he barely had time to process the fact before he realised why she was so afraid. The wolves were attacking her and the horse she rode on. He'd had dealings with them in the past, mostly involving getting back to the castle with prey before they attacked him for the meat. They were wild, they were dangerous, and they were always hungry. When he finally arrived on the scene, he understood the situation almost immediately. 

She was still, miraculously, on the horse, and facing away from him. The bridle, however, was tangled in the branches of a nearby tree. Presumably this had happened during a panic, or possibly she had stopped to rest and leapt back on horseback when she heard howls. The woman - Belle, he reminded himself, she had a name - was surrounded on three sides by wolves. There weren't many of them, from his perspective. But from the point of view of a lone woman and her horse, he imagined the number to seem dangerously large. The Beast wondered why more weren't attacking her, until he noticed the large branch in her right hand. _Clever,_ he thought. _You attacked any who came near._ He shifted his weight and prepared to intimidate the wolves, ready to go to Belle's defence, and cracked a twig. She turned suddenly in her saddle, upon hearing it, and ended up looking straight at him, his teeth bared and hackles up. 

Her eyes grew wide. Recognition? More fear? The Beast didn't know. But at that moment, a wolf chose to attack her while her defences were down. It leapt into the air, fangs bared, ready to kill. The Beast didn't even think. In a surge of power, he raced towards the woman on her horse, and in turn, jumped towards the attacking wolf. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interesting factoid I found out: dogs often don't raise their hackles out of aggression, but rather out of many 'emotions' - for example, excitement, stimulation, arousal, being startled, fear, or interest. Our dear Beast here is raising his in the way most small dogs do - to appear bigger and more intimidating to others and so avoid attack. (Source: http://www.canidae.com/blog/2010/04/why-do-dogs-have-hackles.html) If it was at all confusing, the Beast is also trying to relearn French, in a story written in English, by an English-speaking author, who hasn't spoken French for like three months. Simple, right?


	8. Chapter Seven - The Lovers Meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Belle is attacked by wolves, and a mysterious stranger with weirdly familiar eyes comes to her rescue.

**Chapter Seven**

**The Lovers Meet**

Belle had barely gotten off Phillipe before she realised she was being watched. She glanced over her shoulder, her hair obscuring her vision for a second, to see a pair of yellow eyes staring back at her. She froze, unsure whether the animal was friendly or not - it was too dark to see into the shadows of the wood, and the moonlight only dimly lit the small clearing she was in. Slowly it padded out, fangs visible, a low growl rumbling in its throat.

"Oh, no," she whispered. She was so focused on the wolf in front of her that she only noticed the others until Phillipe let out a soft noise of panic. "No, no, no." Without moving her head, Belle tried to scan the area for an appropriate exit. Nothing was forthcoming, and the wolves were approaching even quicker. _Why did I have to tie Phillipe's bridle up?_ Belle thought, mentally kicking herself. If she hadn't been afraid of what might happen, she would have turned away from the wolves and gotten onto her horse's back immediately. _Alright, don't panic. What do you know about wolves?_

Belle bumped up against Phillipe's side, not even aware she'd been backing up until that moment. An idea came into her mind, and just as quietly as before, she continued walking around her horse. _Don't make eye contact. Don't run, or they'll chase you._ Belle was now separated from the wolves by Phillipe's body. She clapped his back, trying to reassure him, and swung herself back into the saddle. Her joints protested a little; she'd been riding all day and for a good part of the night, too, but the fear rushing through her body stopped her feeling it too badly. There were lots of wolves surrounding her now. She had no idea how many were there lurking in the shadows. _Too many,_ she thought grimly. _Time to put this plan in action._ In one fluid movement, without thinking too much about it so she didn't lose her nerve, Belle reached across Phillipe's head and grabbed for the branch she thought was holding his bridle. 

She missed by a few inches, but managed to pull a branch underneath it away from the tree. The fresh snow fell to the ground, and a soft yelp alerted Belle to the fact that she was surrounded on that side. A wolf scurried out from Phillipe's front legs, covered in powdery snow. _Like Madame Cotard's dog, the Christmas I accidentally spilled icing sugar over the table and he was covered in it._ But Belle didn't have time to think about the past. The snow-covered wolf turned his head to snap at Phillipe's legs, and Belle swung the branch at the wolf. It connected with his skull with a sickening crunch, and Belle winced. She was almost relieved when she saw she hadn't killed the animal. Only a moment later, however, she heard more footsteps behind her, and Belle swung around in the saddle, luckily catching a greying wolf in the jaw. It was knocked off course but didn't appear to be injured, as far as Belle could tell in the darkness. She waved the stick at the other wolves in what she hoped was a threatening manner, and tried once again to reach for Phillipe's bridle. 

"Come on!" she muttered in frustration when she missed again. She managed to bat a few more wolves away, but Belle knew she couldn't spend hours fending herself against them with only a thick branch. For one thing, she needed to keep going if she was going to rescue her father from the insane asylum. 

For another, her swings were getting less powerful as time went by, and the animals could tell. 

Phillipe had never been the calmest of horses, but Belle was getting seriously concerned at how still he was standing. He was known throughout the village for being skittish and easily spooked by an owl's hoot or wolf's howl. If she'd had another option, Belle would have taken a braver horse out to the woods, but Phillipe was all she had. His refusal to move except to shift his weight worried her; given the stress he was under just now, she half-expected him to be beyond consolation. Another wolf came charging up, and Belle readied her branch. She hit him, but only weakly, more of a slight pat on his rump than the blow she needed; what was worse, he nipped Phillipe's leg. 

The large horse whinnied, trying to rear up. Belle grabbed onto his mane for dear life, thankful that the tied bridle at least meant he couldn't go charging off like he wanted to. She whispered quiet nothings into his ear, desperately trying to calm the horse down enough so all four feet were on the ground. _It'll take a miracle for me to get out of this with Phillipe alive,_ she thought. Rubbing his neck firmly, she settled the skittish horse down, getting a better grip on her branch as she did so. A low growl and a twig snapping suddenly drew her attention to her back, where she hadn't yet seen any wolves. "Please don't let there be more of you," she prayed, turning her head to see what was there in the gloom.

It was . . . a beast. Belle momentarily forgot the danger behind her, at the appearance of this fresh danger in front of her. She could only focus on parts of the whole, as it growled, low and menacing. Ram's horns. A lion's face. A large, barrel-like chest covered by some sort of clothing. Claws and fangs, sharp and deadly. And set in its face, bright blue human eyes, oddly familiar, glowering straight at her. 

It locked eyes with her, and Belle could pinpoint the moment when it decided to attack, a few seconds before it actually did. It took a small step back and raced towards her. At the same moment, Belle could hear one of the wolves running, and she turned her head just in time to see it leap up in attack. She raised her arm instinctively, even though she knew it wouldn't defend her. She heard the creature behind her jump in the air, no doubt to attack her as well. Ducking down as close to Phillipe as she could, she hugged his neck tightly and buried her head in his mane, waiting for the moment of impact.

Instead of the two animals hitting her, however, she felt a rush of air as something landed on the side where the wolves were. She could hear whimpers of pain, but a loud, earth-rumbling growl was louder. The wolves howled and yapped, and seemed to be attacking something, from what Belle could hear. She heard a few distinct thumps - maybe animals hitting the trees? Tentatively, she opened one eye. She was right - the wolves had hit the trees, with considerable force from the looks of it. To her amazement, the beastly creature she had thought was trying to kill her was the one fighting the wolves. She watched silently, fear and awe battling inside her. The creature kept on fighting the wolves, a terrifying roar blasting out when blood was drawn. A small, brown wolf, wisely avoiding it, instead went for the easier target of Belle and Phillipe. The wolf's jaws closed around her calf for an instant, but she managed to beat it away with the branch. She had never been happier to be wearing a thick winter dress than at that moment; it had probably saved her leg. Belle looked up again at the creature to see the rest of the collected wolves scattering, clearly realising they couldn't win this fight. It stood on all fours, back to her, panting heavily. Slowly, as the last of the wolves fled the small clearing, it turned to face her.

It didn't look much worse for wear, Belle thought. Apart from some bleeding cuts on its arm, it seemed unharmed. Belle herself didn't feel too hurt either, although now that the thrill of the situation was fading, she could feel a sharp, throbbing pain in her leg from where the wolf had bitten it. Slowly, so she didn't hurt her leg, Belle slid off Phillipe's back. Something about the creature felt safe, like it wasn't going to attack her. She limped towards it, hands cautiously out in a gesture of no harm, and stopped a few feet away. The silence spread out between them, crisp and even as the snow that had been untouched by the violent scene. She could see the clouds of steam its breath was making in the air, and Belle took a deep breath herself. 

"Thank you," she said. She looked at it for a second, its eyes wide, and turned to go back to Phillipe. It didn't appear to need any assistance, and she had to get on with what she came out to do in the first place. 

"Belle."

She froze, her back to the creature. Her name came out its mouth like a low rumbling deep in the earth. _How can it possibly know my name?_ she thought. _No, don't be absurd, of course it doesn't know my name. But still . . ._ She turned around, curiosity piqued, and met its eyes. The creature stared at her, almost pleading. Belle took a shaky breath.

"What did you just say?" she asked. 

"Belle," it repeated. She could almost feel the blood leaving her face, in her shock. It definitely wasn't a mistake. The creature - who still seemed strangely familiar, even though she was certain she'd never seen it before - knew her name. She was jolted out of her reverie when it asked, "Hurt?"

She glanced down at her leg, small holes in her dress showing where the wolf had bitten her. "A little," she said. 

"Come," the creature said, padding towards her. Instinctively she took a step back, and it halted. Its mouth moved a little, as if trying to speak, but it changed its mind on whatever it was going to say. "Will not harm. Ca . . . home is warm."

"I'm really not that hurt," she said. "It's just a little bruising on my leg. Really, you're hurt worse than me, you're bleeding. And I need to keep moving if I'm going to . . ." She trailed off awkwardly. Belle could tell how ridiculous she sounded, talking about journeys in the middle of the woods at midnight. The creature shivered a little. 

"Come," it said again. "Rest for night. Horse can . . . lie in stable." It looked at her. There didn't seem to be any deceit in its eyes. There was no pretence she could detect, no expectation that she would agree. "If it pleases you," it murmured, and maybe that was what settled the last of her doubts.

"Alright," Belle said. The expression of shock was wide on its face, almost like human disbelief instead of animal alarm. But then, Belle rationalised, it clearly wasn't an animal. Whatever it was could be answered later on. At the same moment she consented, she felt a weight lift off her. She hadn't solved the problem of her father, but at least she had someplace warm to stay tonight. "One condition," she said, as she untangled Phillipe's bridle, not really looking at the creature. "What should I call you?"

After a long pause, a small rumble announced, "Beast."

"No, I mean, what's your name?"

"I am the Beast. That is my name now." 

Before Belle could really absorb what it had just said, the creature - or, rather, the Beast - padded off into the night, after checking she was following. She looked in the direction she thought the insane asylum was in. _I'm sorry, Papa,_ she thought. _I'll be there to rescue you soon. _The guilt still stabbed her, and the knife was only twisted a little further every time she felt the metal of her wedding ring press against her fingers. _I'll find you, and we'll both get far away from Gaston once and for all._ At the thought of her husband, who at the moment hopefully still had no idea where she was, Belle realised where she had seen the Beast before. The bright blue eyes which matched its face so ill were the same ones she had seen peering out the forest on her wedding. __

__Belle shivered, only slightly from the cold, and kicked at Phillipe's sides to gee him up. She didn't know what it meant, that this mysterious Beast had known about her for weeks. She didn't get a chance to ask it either, as they spent the rest of their walk in silence. Belle had no idea how long they had been travelling through the winter woods when the trees finally began to thin out. The light seemed to be getting brighter, too. They made their way out the tree line, and Belle gasped at the sight before her. In front of her, separated from the forest by a long bridge over a moat, was a castle with lights twinkling out from the windows. Even though she was far away, it gave off a menacing aura. Belle shivered again, not even slightly from the cold this time. As she followed the Beast into its castle, she could only hope that her instincts about this creature were right, and she hadn't just made a very stupid choice indeed._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Beast is meant to have limited speech skills as he's regaining his humanity, but they'll improve over time, as it would be too frustrating both to write and read a character who can't speak in complete sentences for the amount of time I have planned for this.


	9. Chapter Eight - Enchanteresse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we get a look at the inner workings of our antagonist, and possible villain, the Enchantress.

**Chapter Eight**

**Enchanteresse**

The witch stood on the cliffs edge, her eyes watering freely in the whistling wind. She liked places of high intrigue; misty woods, crashing waves, all those places so favoured by writers of drama and melodrama alike. Ironic perhaps, given what she had to do to gain powers, but the caprices of fate didn't change the witch's likes and dislikes. The wind ruffled her hair and tugged on her deep blue robe until her knees buckled slightly to stop herself moving forwards, as if it was trying to pull her over the edge. Perhaps it was. She could never be sure if she was actually still supposed to be in the world, or if it was just her magic keeping her alive, after all these years.

Here was the truth about her magic: most of the time, she could change only small things. Eye colour, voice timbre, body weight. If she had power stocked up, she could affect more; change a person's dominance from right-handed to left, their point of view long enough to get what she wanted, or make herself youthful again. These were all temporary only. Well, temporary for her - a decade is a comparatively long time for a mortal. The annoyance of infinite life and finite magic was that there was never enough for her to do what she wanted. And she wanted to help. When she was human - and that was long ago, back before she lost herself in her power - she felt so powerless. Once the magic had been gifted, she had vowed to always use it for the good of the people, and nothing else. 

She let the salty sea air fill her lungs, and spread her hands out, as if she was drawing curtains back. _Let me see the woman,_ she asked, holding her breath. _Let me see the Beast._ Her emerald ring glowed, and a picture began to form on the wind in front of her. It was clear and sharp, the kind of clarity this world wouldn't see for centuries. The witch leaned forwards hungrily, as the picture began to move before her eyes. A woman on horseback was following the prince across the bridge. The woman couldn't see it was the prince, of course, but the witch always knew those whom she had cursed. She watched patiently, as a dull ache began to settle in her chest. The horse was stabled, the woman stroking him gently. The Beast waited a moment, and then the two of them moved inside the castle. _Let me see inside,_ she asked. Her lungs were beginning to burn, but she had to be sure of what she saw. The woman was shivering slightly, as the Beast directed her towards a room with a glowing fire. She almost fell towards the fire, warming her hands and letting her hood fall back. She was beautiful, the witch saw. _So much the better,_ she thought. _Beauty only makes love grow quicker. Show me the father as well._ Instantly, the picture moved away from the Beast and woman, and it seemed to fly across surrounding countryside until the witch saw the building they were headed towards. _La Maison de Fous._

With a pained gasp the witch let out the breath she had been holding, allowing oxygen to circle through her body again, and the image faded away, her ring's glow abating at the same time. She had seen all she needed to for now, although the father's imprisonment still worried her. The handling of the first few encounters were always difficult, and this time it had been more finicky than usual. However, once the two of them were together, the witch generally wasn't needed for a few months at minimum. Well, that wasn't quite true; she would need to force them to stay together for a period of time. Maybe a snowstorm. Or a fallen log. Or perhaps the horse's injury should develop a little more. It didn't really matter what she chose, as long as Beast and woman both lived together for a period. Despite the slight changes that had happened near the start, the story was still on track.

It had taken a long time for her to realise what made her magic stronger. Human emotion powered her, positive more so than negative. She had come up with the plan from reading the old stories, and so far it had always worked. It didn't make her a monster. She gave them happiness, after all. The pain and anger her Beasts would feel powered her to keep an eye on all the elements, until they were ready to put in place. The love her Beautys felt let her become powerful enough to challenge kings and despots, to inspire the right poet or even simply let her see what was happening without the need to hold her breath. And, of course, their love gave her the surge of power needed to curse the next Beast in the making. The choices she made were all for the greater good, she told herself. She didn't always believe what she said.

Sometimes the witch felt better about her _modus operandi_ , and she called herself Enchantress. Sometimes it felt worse, and called itself cloaked figure. Usually, she was just the witch. Morally grey, sacrificing personal gain for the good of the populace, and able to watch two people falling in love, again and again and again. And they were always happy together, the witch knew. She used to lure merchants with several daughters, as a sort of test to see who would rescue him. The brave girl who left home was always a match for whatever stuck-up noble the witch had cursed. Before the method had been tried and tested, the witch had supervised the princes as well, establishing herself as a guardian of some sort. Now, she didn't feel the need. It wasn't like she was burned by iron or running water any more - and it was difficult enough trying to supervise a young boy when she couldn't touch iron or cross the moat to his castle. The witch also used to make the girl prove her love, by rescuing her husband. She had stopped that, now; the times changed, and she had to change with them. It was simpler than it had been in the past. It led to a little boredom at the beginning, true - she'd memorised her lines to the prince long ago. So little by little, she added different elements. The rival suitor was an interesting one, and she always negotiated it carefully. She'd never failed in a story yet, but there was a first time for everything. The time limit was a fairly recent addition. Beforehand, the princes could wait decades before a suitable Beauty was found. Ten years kept everything neat. Although cursing a child did add to the witch's guilt. 

She took a step away from the cliff's edge, and felt her features slowly change, her ring a muted glow under her robes. She didn't need to look in a mirror to know that for the moment, her eyes were green and her hair sunshine yellow - if she didn't concentrate, they always went that colour. She wondered sometimes if that was what she'd looked like, before she got her powers. It had been so long that she couldn't remember anymore. She started to walk away, in the rough direction of the nearest town. She wasn't even in the same country as the future lovers, but the witch knew that if she stayed, she'd only end up hovering, waiting for the moment to strike.

She also needed to rest up her powers in preparation for the coming climax of the story, when she would be needed to ensure everything happening according to plan. It was already bad enough that the father had been put in the asylum, and that the girl had married the suitor. The cries of frustration she'd let out at those developments were enough to make nearby birds flutter out their trees. But nothing else untoward would happen in this story of Beauty and Beast. It couldn't, or else the witch's plan would come crumbling down at her feet.


	10. Chapter Nine - The Enchanted Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Belle gets up close and personal with selected members of the Enchanted Castle, and the Beast faces a moral dilemma.

**Chapter Nine**

**The Enchanted Castle**

When Belle saw the fire, she didn't even hesitate before she rushed towards it. In her hurry to get away from the village unseen, she had forgotten her gloves, and her hands had turned bright red from the cold. She tried to be careful as she heated them by the fire, knowing from previous experience how sore chilblains were. If she was going to rescue Maurice successfully, every part of her body would need to be well-rested and in tip-top condition. The heat washed over her, a welcome change from the freezing temperatures outside. But even as her body relaxed in the comfortable room, she found herself looking around curiously. 

It was a very pretty sort of room, Belle thought. The fireplace took pride of place on the wall opposite the door, and the mantelpiece had been sculpted by somebody who clearly knew what they were doing. The walls were papered in a light blue colour that reminded her of the duck eggs she used to sell, before she decided they laid too little to justify the expense of keeping them. The paper was also decorated with gold diamonds, which caught the flickering firelight. _I wonder if that's real gold leaf?_ Belle thought. _No, don't be silly,_ she corrected herself. _Not even royalty is **that** ostentatious._ The furniture in the room was well-maintained, a comfortable chair placed in front of the fire, and tables holding various knick-knacks spaced evenly throughout. There were small paintings on the wall as well, definitely expensive enough to satisfy the vanity of whoever had decorated this room. The smallest one, which showed a blonde-haired girl in peasant's costume, would probably cost more than Belle and Maurice's entire house. 

_Except it's not our house anymore,_ Belle remembered suddenly. _It's just sitting empty now._ She forced herself to stop thinking about the decision she'd made almost a month ago now, and instead focused on what was happening around her. Which honestly . . . wasn't much. A small frown creased her brow. A castle this large would surely need servants. _And why exactly would you think that?_ she asked herself. _The Beast-thing led you here, and called it 'home'. That doesn't mean people **live** here._ Belle froze. It had saved her life during the fight with the wolves, but that didn't mean it wouldn't eat her. It clearly wasn't an animal, but it wasn't anything human either. Maybe it was one of those evil spirits she'd read about, who had taken this castle for its own and killed the servants. Maybe it had saved her life in the woods so she'd be closer to its den when it decided to eat her.

Belle moved away from the fire, suddenly convinced that she'd made a horrible mistake. She turned to face the door of the small room, when slowly it began to open. She backed up a little, frantically looking around for a weapon of any sort - something to defend herself with. She couldn't see anything, and stared helplessly at the door, waiting for the Beast to come back into the room and devour her. 

Instead of the Beast, however, a wheeled serving tray rolled in at a high speed. A white tea set lay on top of it, steam coming out the teapot's spout, and the little serving tray drew to a halt immediately in front of Belle. 

"How on earth . . . ?" Belle muttered, flying over to the door to see who had pushed it. She peered out into the dark hallway, but there was nobody there as far as she could see. She turned back again, only to find the tray had followed her back over to the door. Belle jumped back a little, unnerved at the tray's movement. She knew she hadn't touched it at all when she ran to the door. Cautiously, she sidestepped around the tray into the warm room again. She walked back to the fireside, and Belle could hear the muted sound of wheels rolling over the thick carpet beneath Belle's feet.

"This is too much," she said, burying her face in her hands. "This is . . ." Belle dragged her hands down over her cheeks, to see the tray in front of her again. Despite herself, she smiled a little at the situation. "Alright, then. Hello. My name is Belle." She nodded a little awkwardly at the tray and tea set. _Am I seriously introducing myself to an inanimate object?_ she thought. 

Her acknowledgment seemed to trigger something, however, as the teapot and a cup hopped off their saucers towards Belle. She could feel her jaw drop as the teapot filled the little cup with tea, milk, and sugar, and nodded back towards Belle. Automatically Belle picked up the cup and took a sip out of it, her good manners still a reflex even in this . . . whatever it was. Nevertheless, the hot drink was doing her good; whether the Beast had sent it in or it had come of it's own accord, Belle was grateful for the teapot's intervention. She noticed a little chip in the cup's rim, and ran the pad of her finger over it softly. "Hey, what happened to you?" she asked in a soft voice. The cup seemed to droop in her hand, and twist back to the teapot glumly. "Oh, I'm sorry," Belle said. "This is just . . . all so strange. But I'll be leaving in the morning, anyway. Thank you for your hospitality." She placed the cup back on the serving tray, and it snuggled close to the large teapot. As quickly as the tray had zoomed into the room, it shot back out, and Belle was left alone once again. 

"Huh," she whispered. "An enchanted castle."

***

The Beast had barely left the stables before he knew more servants were moving around. He hoped none of them would scare Belle too badly. A Beast, she'd handled remarkably well. But an entire castle of moving objects? They'd just spook her away, and that was the last thing he needed. _Well. It's not like she's going to stay anyway,_ he forced himself to remember. _She said she needed to go somewhere._ A tiny spark of hope persisted, despite himself. Maybe he could convince her to stay. He might not even need to convince her - the snowstorm could easily worsen overnight and leave her stranded at the castle. For the time being, he showed Belle into the last room he remembered having a lit fire, which happened to be where he had been lying in despair about an hour ago. She half-ran, half-fell towards it, and the Beast moved towards the source of the noise in his castle - the kitchens. 

When he opened the door, he nearly got the surprise of his life. Nothing could ever be as unexpected as turning into a monster on Christmas Day, but the scene before him came pretty close. Everything in the kitchen was moving - _everything_. Cutlery, dishes, dusters, towels, all rushing around in a bustle, almost like they were trying to organise themselves. They froze in place as soon as they noticed the Beast. He looked around the room, with what he hoped was gravitas. He recognised the candelabra from earlier perched on top of the stove, with a feather duster in his . . . arms? The Beast shook his head in confusion. Too many words. 

"Girl here." He frowned. Not enough words. "Bring drinks. Make comf - make safe." He scowled darkly, but refrained from expressing his rage through violence. If he broke a servant, it would be one less servant to help him win her over. Still, it wasn't the Beast's fault he didn't have enough words. _How long will it be before my thoughts can be actually said out loud, instead of just a fraction of them?_ As he was brooding, a tea set was building itself up on a serving tray. It looked familiar in a strange way - and not just because he'd seen it around the castle for five or six years. "Do not brighten," he warned. "SCARE!" he shouted an instant later. "Do not scare." The tray trundled away, and the Beast stalked away, to wait for Belle to drink her tea and be shown to a room. 

_You could **make** her stay,_ a small part of him suggested as he paced up and down the hallway. _There are cells in the tower, with locks **you** can break, but she can't. That way she'd be near you all the time._

_Tempting,_ he argued back. _But she has somewhere she needs to be. Besides, isn't that wrong?_ The faintest sketch of a memory etched in his mind; a tall man with not-green yellow hair and a moustache, who said "If you love something . . ." _I'll find a way to keep her here._

_How?_ the smaller part of him taunted. _She's leaving in the morning!_

He was snapped out his train of though by the woman herself appearing right in front of him. She gasped a little in shock, and he supposed he couldn't blame her for that; after all it was a dark corridor and he was . . . monstrous. A wave of despair hit him again. _There's no way she could ever love me, not when I'm so hideous and she's so beautiful._

"Follow," he said abruptly. "Room this way." By pure luck, the candelabra had snuck out from the kitchens - probably to see what was happening - and the Beast picked it up to light the castle ahead of them. He didn't turn back to see if Belle was following them, but he didn't need to. His ears were sensitive enough to pick up her soft footsteps on the ground as she walked behind him - close enough so she wouldn't be left alone in the dark hallway, but still keeping her distance from the large Beast. 

Once they had left the relative brightness of the main hall, the castle was even darker than the Beast remembered. It felt almost oppressive, weighing him down with only three candles to light up the way ahead. The flickering light caught shadows from high above them, throwing gargoyles into sharp relief and cloaking alcoves in black. He wished he could just run towards his room like he normally would, but he needed to go at a walking pace so Belle could keep up. Unease pricked at his neck, even though the Beast knew nothing was wrong - he'd walked these halls hundreds of times since the curse, and nothing had ever happened to him. Still, he couldn't help a short sigh of relief when he reached the first of the guest rooms. 

"Room," he grunted towards Belle, swinging the door open. She stared blankly at him. He gestured for her to move forwards with a paw, and she recoiled subtly. A reflection from the candlelight revealed the source of her discomfort, and he pulled his paw towards him. He hadn't even realised that the sight of his long, sharp claws would unnerve her, but she _had_ just seen him fight off a good number of hungry wolves. Remembering the battle, the Beast suddenly felt a dull ache in his arm - in his rush of adrenaline since the wolf attack, and his effort to keep the woman comfortable (why was it so hard to say that stupid word out loud?), he hadn't yet seen to his injuries.

"Your room," he said brusquely, and Belle slipped past him into the guest room. "Light fire," he muttered to the candelabra. It gave him a salute, and hopped down out his paw to make the room more comfortable. 

"Thank you," Belle said quietly. She was looking directly at him. The intensity of her stare made him a little uncomfortable, but he met her gaze and held it. Her eyes seemed filled with determination - or maybe just a stubborn refusal to give in to her fear. Either way, the Beast reasoned, the result on him was the same. He awkwardly bowed his head towards her, another half-memory of a previous life, and raced towards his rooms. He would need time to think of a plan to keep her here if the curse was ever going to be broken.


	11. Chapter Ten - The Injury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Belle grossly miscalculated Phillipe's wound from the wolf fight, and Things ensue.

**Chapter Ten**

**The Injury**

When Belle woke up the following morning, it was nothing like what her stories had described. There was no minute of hesitation, no memories lost. She woke up in the fine bed of the Beast's castle, remembering exactly what had happened and why she was here. Her shoes pinched her feet slightly - a consequence of sleeping in them all night. Belle frowned as she wiggled her toes around. She hadn't even realised she wasn't dressed for bed. Exhaustion had overtaken her as soon as the Beast had closed her bedroom door, and Belle had collapsed onto the comfortable bed mere minutes later. She yawned and sat up slowly, her cloak pooling around her waist as it fell from her shoulders. Blinking the sleep away from her eyes, Belle tried to get a good look at the room she was in.

Heavy blue curtains filtered the (presumably) bright sunlight streaming in from large windows opposite the door. The bedspread was also a dark blue, and as Belle looked around she noticed many similarities to the room she'd been welcomed in last night. The wallpaper, while not identical, had clearly been created under a similar theme; the ornamental fireplace was the same as the downstairs one, too. A large off-white wardrobe stood in the far corner of the room from where Belle was sitting, and she wondered for a moment if it was painted wood or something altogether more expensive that had crafted it. Quietly, she got up from the bed and walked over to the window. She threw back the curtains, getting a face full of dust for her trouble. _When was the last time this place was cleaned?_ she wondered. _Then again, I always assumed an enchanted castle would clean itself on a semi-regular basis. Just as part of the general magic upkeep, like making sure the water runs and the walls don't fall down._

_Oh my word,_ she thought back, _is this **really** the train of thought to be following right now?! Out of all the new things to ponder, you're thinking about how this castle gets cleaned?_ She shook her head, and focused on the scene outside. 

Now that it was day, she managed to get a proper look at the castle grounds the Beast had guided her through last night. Her room faced the large gardens at what Belle assumed was the rear end of the castle, and they stretched out into the distance, their end point unseeable. Directly below her window was a large fountain, the ground evenly flat for several feet around it - she assumed it was paved. The fountain wasn't on, and from what little Belle could see of it the water appeared to be frozen. The rest of the grounds was indistinguishable, snow blanketing it thanks to the previous night's storm. They entire area was ringed in by tall walls, evidently meant to keep invaders out. Belle could just see the tops of the trees peeking over the edge of them, snow weighing down heavily on their branches. 

Belle turned away from the window with a sigh. The sight of the trees reminded her of her mission. Whatever the true nature of this Beast was - and despite the fact she was still alive and in one piece, Belle still felt she'd trusted it a little too easily - it had been charitable enough to give her a bed for the night and a hot drink. Now that morning had come, she needed to be on her way. She brushed her hair into some semblance of neatness with her fingers, retying it away from her face, and did her best to generally straighten herself up. She glanced back over the room, and smoothed out the bedspread. She hadn't touched anything else besides the curtains, and it was the least she could do to repay her debt. She always hated relying on other people's charity. 

Quietly, Belle poked her head out the door and walked down the hall. On the one hand, Belle really didn't feel like meeting the Beast first thing in the morning, when it might be a little quicker to pounce. On the other, it was only polite to find and thank it for letting her stay. _Maybe it'll find me anyway. This **is** an enchanted castle, after all. Anything could happen._

Belle successfully retraced her steps back to the grand staircase the Beast had led her up last night, and descended, one hand resting on the banister. The hallway in front of her was just as vast and cavernous as any other part of the castle, numerous curtained windows vainly attempting to let some light into the hall. When she lifted her hand at the bottom of the steps, it was covered in thick grey dust. Making a face, Belle wiped her hand on the underside of her apron.

"The mystery of the self-cleaning castle continues," she muttered under her breath. She looked up towards the rest of the hall to see a few feather dusters standing on end together a few metres away. Belle paused, amazed at the sight before her. "So I guess that moving tea tray last night _definitely_ wasn't a dream," she said. "Well. It's not like I really thought it was a dream, given everything that's happened so far." She shook her head, trying to free the cogs in her brain from the cobwebs (Maurice did the same thing, and she was struck with another pang of guilt), and headed towards what she thought was the corridor leading to the front door. 

Suddenly, Belle found her way blocked by five or six feather dusters. They stood between her and the corridor, a few brushing against her legs. She stepped over them - this _was_ the way out, after all - only for them to reform closer to her feet. Belle tried to take another step, but cried out instead when a couple of them rapped her shins. 

"I'm just trying to find the way out!" Belle said. "If I'm lost, could you at least show me the way instead of attacking me?" Instantly, their demeanour changed. They brushed against her, evidently leading her back the way she came, and Belle followed their lead through hallways and down more stairs. Soon enough, Belle was at the front door of the castle. "Thank you," she said to the feather dusters, and they bustled away together as a group. For some reason, it reminded Belle of the way the Gillenormand triplets chattered together with other village girls. She smiled a little at the recollection, and tightened her cloak a little to prepare for the winter cold. She pushed one of the doors open slowly, trying not to make it squeak too much, and stepped out into the winter scene she had already observed. Her breath puffed out in the air as Belle marched over to the stables. 

"Phillipe, my lovely boy, how are you feeling?" she cooed. "Ready to go save -" 

She broke off mid-sentence when she saw the state of her horse. 

Phillipe was lying down on the hay, his eyes glassy. He looked as if he'd barely moved since Belle had left him the night before with a rug and a handful of oats. His normally bright, intelligent eyes were fixed on the spot in front of him, and she could see he was shivering slightly. But the source of his behaviour brought horrified tears to Belle's eyes. She had assumed the wolves last night had only nipped at his leg. In actuality, the wolf she had failed to bat away from her horse had managed to bit Phillipe deep enough to tear off some of his flesh. In her confusion and fear, Belle hadn't noticed the previous night, and had left her horse alone all night in a strange stable, with a painful wound. 

She was never going to be able to find Maurice now.

***

The Beast had already been awake for hours when he heard the commotion outside the corridor that led to his rooms. His arm still ached from the fight the previous night, although the bleeding had stopped a little while ago, and he had been experimenting with how much weight he could comfortably rest on it. As he limped to his bedroom door, he could clearly hear Belle's voice ringing out, although the precise words were beyond him at the moment. He listened pensively as she walked away from the corridor. 

_Maybe she had come to say goodbye?_ The thought fluttered just out of his reach, the hope as irritating as it had ever been.

"Don't be a fool," he muttered aloud. His muted pain at her decision to leave was loud enough to drown out any surprise at his first complete sentence since he had regained his consciousness. 

Now that she was up, he supposed he should at least go down and say goodbye. He padded out his chambers, careful to avoid further hurting his injured arm, and took a shortcut through the gardens to the stables. The Beast barely recognised the wintery scene around him - only the cold in his paws let him know the snow had stuck to the ground again. A small part of him hoped that Belle would have a safe journey to wherever it was she was going. However, before he even turned the corner to the stables he knew something was wrong. He could smell the horse's fear. It hung thick in the air, dispersed only by a horrified gasp he assumed came from Belle. Cautiously, he rounded the corner to see Belle crouched over her horse, her head bent low.

"Belle," he said. "Something happened?"

"My horse is injured," she said tonelessly. "He was bitten last night, and I didn't notice. I made him carry me here, that won't have helped. And I don't know how I'm going to leave without a horse. I don't know -" She cut herself off. He could hear her struggle not to cry.

"Stay," he offered. "No . . . more horses here. Wait for yours to . . . improve." Again he cursed himself for his incomplete language skills. _You must sound so callous,_ he thought. "Welcome here."

"No, no, I've stayed long enough, I can't intrude on your hospitality," she said weakly. She still hadn't turned round to face him. He wanted to see her face, but the Beast knew that being touched by such a monster would repel her. 

"Not . . . intrude," he said, his tongue forming the word awkwardly. "Welcome. My guest."

She sighed in defeat. They both knew that Belle couldn't really leave, not without a horse. "As soon as Phillipe is better I'll be out of your hands, I promise." 

Suddenly, a feeling of elation overtook the Beast. _Finally!_ he heard someone cry - the same person who had screamed in despair only a few weeks ago. His head still spun, but the pain of the humming he half-expected never arrived. The happiness frightened him. He knew it wasn't his happiness, but somebody else's. As quickly as the other times he had heard the voice, the feelings melted away, and he was back in the stable with Belle and her horse. 

"Call servants to help horse," he said, turning back to the castle.

"How do I do that?" she called out after him, her face furrowed in confusion. 

"No," he said. He gestured to himself. Understanding smoothed out her face, but only for a second. Worry for her horse overtook her again, and Belle bent over to whisper soothing nothings in his ear. 

Despite himself, the Beast felt a tiny glimmer of hope as he limped towards the castle. Maybe his curse had a chance of being broken after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you're prepared, I'm not a vet so I will blissfully ignore all worst-case scenarios for our dear Phillipe and Beast.


	12. Chapter Eleven - Settling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an injury is treated, and the Beast makes a dangerous assumption.

**Chapter Eleven**

**Settling In**

Belle sat by Phillipe's side, stroking his neck soothingly while she waited for the Beast's servants to appear. The winter air chilled her back despite her cloak, and she scooted a little closer to the warmth of her horse. 

"Good boy," she murmured. "You're such a good boy, Phillipe. So brave." His eyes flicked up at the sound of her voice, and Belle could see the pain in them. "When you've been taken care of, I'll get you something nice to eat, huh? You'll like that, won't you?" She wasn't sure whether who she was trying to comfort - herself or Phillipe. Obviously, he was in immediate pain. Belle, on the other hand . . .

"I'm so sorry, Phillipe," she said. "I've injured you, and now Papa's going to be stuck in the - in that place for who _knows_ how long." Although she was filled with despair, tears refused to come to her eyes. "And we're stuck here." She rubbed his neck, glancing again at his wound. "Who knows - maybe this Beast won't be so bad!" It was a hollow joke, but Belle did feel a little better for it. "At least we won't be found." She shivered a little, both at the thought of her husband and at the cold, and glanced around to see if the promised servants had arrived yet. The entrance to the stables behind her were still empty, however, so she turned back to Phillipe. 

"I'll take good care of you, boy," she murmured. "You'll need to get that wound washed out, for one thing. I'll ask about a thicker blanket, too - can't have you getting cold." She patted his neck, and shifted towards the injured leg. "Alright, Phillipe, I'm just going to take a little look at this. Nothing to worry about, nothing to get in a tizzy about . . ."

Belle kept up a steady stream of talk as she moved towards Phillipe's leg. He'd always been a skittish horse, which unfortunately extended to anything related to his body as well. She was only eight or nine when Phillipe had been bought by Maurice, but Belle could still remember her father getting kicked into the stable wall the day Phillipe's shoes were hammered on. She'd been too little to understand that Maurice had been injured quite badly, and had been shocked to silence when he didn't get back up again immediately. Belle had ran for her mother, and between the two of them they had helped Maurice to the house they lived in at the time. They'd had to pay the blacksmith to fit the rest of Phillipe's shoes since Maurice was incapacitated, and it put more strain on the family's already small resources. That day was one of the few memories Belle had of her mother, and she cherished it even more because it was the last memory Belle had of her. 

Now, Belle focused on keeping her voice low and soothing as she edged closer to Phillipe's back leg. _Thank goodness I've never been squeamish,_ she thought. Looking at the bite, it didn't appear to be as bad as Belle had at first assumed. It was a mess of blood and matted hair, and Phillipe wouldn't be strong enough to carry Belle and Maurice for several weeks. But it didn't appear infected; Belle's worst fear had been if amputation of some sort had been necessary. 

A tapping noise from outside the stables caught her attention. She turned around to see a gaggle of objects hopping towards the doors. She recognised the teapot from last night, steam pouring out its spout. Beside it was a white bowl carrying a white cloth. A three-pronged candelabra accompanied them, a thin book balanced over one of its arms. The candelabra approached Belle, proffering the book once it was close enough. She took the book from it carefully, making sure not to catch the paper on any flames. _Domestic Husbandry_ , the cover declared. A page had been dog-eared to mark the place; when Belle flicked to it she saw it was a chapter on basic injuries and how to care for them. 

"Thank you," she said, looking where she thought a face might go on the candle. "You're very kind." _Too kind,_ she thought. _This is too steep a debt to ever repay, and I've only been here twelve hours._ The bowl and teapot moved closer, and as Belle picked up the cloth the teapot filled the bowl with boiling water. Carefully, she dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out. 

"Alright, Phillipe," she said soothingly. "This might sting a little, but I need you to not flinch." She stroked his hindquarters a little, and started to clean up his wound. 

The horse did flinch, but not as violently as Belle had feared. She praised him continuously, petting him every time she needed to clean the cloth. The servants - because nobody else had arrived to help, and the castle _did_ appear to be enchanted, leaving this as the only viable option - waited quietly beside Belle. About ten minutes later, Belle thought she was getting close to a clean wound. 

"Could you get some bandages, please?" she asked the candelabra. "I've almost finished cleaning him up."

The candelabra hopped away, much quicker than it had approached. Belle didn't have to wait long before clean bandages were brought in by another bowl. She thanked it, and started to bind up Phillipe's leg.

"Could you tell me where I could find some food? I didn't bring much with me, and I hate to be a bother, but -"

At what appeared to be the request of the teapot, the candelabra almost violently cut Belle off, gesticulating wildly. Belle stared at it, puzzled as to what it was trying to say. 

"You have no food?"

A negative from the servants. 

"Okay," Belle said slowly. "Is it too much bother?" The teapot emphatically shook its head. "It's _no_ bother?" Belle guessed. The teapot and candelabra nodded enthusiastically, and some more objects entered the stables carrying suitable horse feed. "Oh," she said weakly. "Th-thank you." She tied off Phillipe's blanket without saying another word, and stayed by her horse's side a little longer, scratching his ears. 

A light tugging on her dress caught her attention. She glanced down to see a small group of servants, seemingly led by the teapot. Belle stood up, a little awkwardly given how long she'd been sitting, and the servants hurried back to the castle. Belle followed, looking back over her shoulder to Phillipe one last time before he was out of sight. Back in the main hall, the servants led her to her room - confusingly, a different way than she'd come the night before. When she entered again, Belle noticed that the rest of the curtains had been drawn back since she'd left that morning, letting sunlight stream in brightly. It made the room look almost completely different now that it was properly lit, giving her a larger view of the gardens as well. As Belle gazed out the windows, the wardrobe she had noticed earlier sprung open. It plucked out two or three fine dresses with its doors, laying them on the bed. Curious, Belle walked over. 

Another tug on her dress made her spin round. A small hairbrush held one end of her apron string in its bristles, and as it gave another tug the muddy apron fluttered to the ground. Before Belle could even pick it up, it was whisked away by a group of servants she couldn't see. Something else tugged at the ribbon pulling her plain blue dress together. 

"Hey!" Belle cried out, stepping away from the bed and holding tightly to her dress. "What are you doing?"

The wardrobe pointed to the dresses on the bed. 

"Oh - oh that's really not neces -" Belle started, but the little hairbrush rapped on the bedpost firmly. It looked her up and down - or at least, it appeared to - and Belle was suddenly conscious of the state her dress was in. She hadn't noticed until now the mud stains and rips from the wolf attack. She flushed red. "I don't need anything nearly so fine as these," she said, looking at the dresses. "I'm just an inventor's daughter, not a fine lady."

The hairbrush rapped on the bedpost again, and Belle felt a perverse stubbornness to keep her old dress on. 

"I'm not sure you understand," she said. "I don't need these clothes. I have another dress with me." 

The wardrobe sagged a little. _Have I . . . hurt its feelings?_ Belle wondered. _I guess it is just trying to be hospitable._

"I'm sorry," Belle said. The wardrobe perked up again, but something about its demeanour suggested confusion. "I didn't mean to offend you. I'd just hate to be a bother." She smiled a little, and pulled at the laces on the back of her dress. The hairbrush perked up again, and jabbed excitedly at the two dresses. 

"Which one?" Belle asked. "Maybe . . . the green one? If that's alright?" 

She didn't think she'd ever seen an inanimate object so happy.

***

The Beast's arm had taken a full ten minutes to stop smarting once his weight was off it. After he'd alerted the servants to Belle's needs, he'd scrambled to his rooms as quickly as possible. He didn't want to take a look at it just yet, even though he knew that logically the wound was still there. It still ached, for one thing, and it prickled a little every time he stretched his arm too far, for another. He huffed out a sigh, and spared a passing glance at the rose the enchantress had given him. It still looked as perfect as it had the day she'd given it to him, a soft pink glow lighting its immediate surroundings. 

_This rose will bloom until midnight of your twenty-first birthday. If you have not found love by the time the last petal falls, you will remain a monster for all time._

He shuddered a little at the memory of her words. No petals had yet fallen from the rose - and assuming he hadn't lost more than one year of his life to his despair, they wouldn't fall for another four or five years. _If Belle wasn't going to leave as soon as her horse was healed, could I manage to win her love in only a few years?_ he wondered. _Can I win her love at all?_

"Don't be a fool," he muttered, for the second time in an hour. He paused for a moment, his ears flicking up thoughtfully. "Still. Got this far." His bared his teeth. _No, that's not what I meant to do,_ he thought. _I just wanted to smile._

He sighed again, his ears sinking back down into their habitual position. How was he supposed to win her love if he couldn't even _smile_ without terrifying somebody? There was no way of knowing how much time he had left to try, apart from checking the rose for fallen petals, and there was no way of knowing how much he had lost. 

"Wait a minute." He remembered suddenly. _The clock in the library._ If anybody could tell him how much time he'd lost, it would be . . . it would be . . . ! 

"Names!" he muttered in defeat. "Need to . . . not forget names." Still, at least he had a plan now. Walking carefully, always aware of his arm in case it suddenly worsened, the Beast made his way to the library. 

Walking through the castle, the Beast was struck by how busy it had become only half a day after Belle had arrived. Every ten minutes or so down the hall, he would see a feather duster battling with a cobweb, or a drawn pair of curtains. It was nowhere near the hustle and bustle of the castle in the early days of the curse, when everybody still tried to keep up appearances. But it was still something. Looking out one of the newly-revealed windows, the Beast saw the teapot, candelabra, and various other servants leading a figure in a blue dress back towards the castle, away from the stables. Even though the horse's recovery wasn't in his best wishes, the Beast still hoped in the back of his mind that he would be alright. Hunting wild animals and watching a domestic horse die were two very different matters, as far as he was concerned. He turned away from the window and kept on towards the library. Apart from his visit a week ago, he hadn't been there since before the curse.

No servants had entered the library yet as far as the Beast could tell, although he had left the door ajar since his last visit just in case. Consequently, it was still dusty and dark, the weight of years of absence oppressing what the Beast couldn't help but think of as a cheerful room. He still could remember only small parts of his past - the woman in the garden, the man with not-green hair, and other small flashes that were maddeningly vague - but even if he'd never spent any time here before the curse, he felt comforted just being in the room. His parents must have chosen the books that filled every available surface. He assumed they were the man and woman he could barely remember, too.

Suddenly, he felt an itching in his nose. Before he had time to process what was happening, he sneezed loudly, giving himself a fright as he did so. He shook his head self-deprecatingly. _You idiot. Scared by your own sneeze._ A small scraping sound caught his attention, and he turned to see the clock from a week ago, flat on its back on the table where the Beast had left it. _Was **it** scared by that sneeze as well?_ he wondered. He padded over and set it right way up again. It nodded gratefully at the Beast. 

"I want to know . . ." The words failed him again, as they had so many times before, and the Beast growled in frustration. He had his intention so clear in his mind - he knew _exactly_ what he wanted to say, but when he tried to speak out loud all he could convey were blunders and hesitations. "How long . . . been lost?" he asked. He hoped it was specific enough. 

The clock did nothing for a minute or so. The Beast began to fear that he'd confused the servant or caused it to suddenly become inanimate again, when the hands began to fly around the face. They ended up positioned at five o'clock. The feeling of dread lifted from the Beast. The servants had stopped moving in midwinter. He remembered the months that followed being lonely and cold, but the last time the Beast consciously remembered anything it had been spring - maybe even summer. It was just the memory of being caught in a rainstorm and drying off in the hot sun, but as the Beast thought it through the clock's assessment made sense. _Five months. I've only lost five months._

The clock itself was standing close to the edge of the table, looking down warily. It made a move as if to jump down, but seemed to think better of it and scattered back to the centre of the table. The Beast looked at it. _Maybe it's afraid of heights,_ he mused. He held out his paw wordlessly. Hesitantly, the clock moved closer, until he could grab it. Gently, he walked out the library, flicking the door shut with his tail, and set the servant down on the floor outside the library. It turned to him, bowed, and then hurried off, probably to meet the other servants again. It had probably been ages since it had last seen them. 

When he looked up, it was to see Belle at the other end of the corridor, in a different dress. It looked the same dull yellow as green and red now appeared to him. A strange look was on her face, one the Beast couldn't quite pinpoint. It wasn't anything he could identify as explicitly positive, but he didn't think it was a bad look, either. Contemplative, maybe. He limped towards her, his arm throbbing with every step. She didn't move at all, except to face him head-on. 

"How is horse?" he asked. 

"Good," she said. "Well, not _good_ , but his leg isn't infected. Your servants brought a book to help me."

That surprised him, although he didn't think it showed. They must have either not noticed their stranded companion, or had forgotten him in their quest to help Belle. If they could talk back, he would have asked them about it later. 

"Good," he echoed lamely. He nodded a little, the closest he could get to a bow on all fours, and started to make his way back to the West Wing. 

"Um - Beast?" His name dropped awkwardly from her lips, and he paused, twisting to face her. 

"If you like, I can take a look at your arm. It looks like the same kind of wound Phillipe has." Her face looked normal, and although he would have liked her to offer out of a preference for him, he suspected she was just doing it because it was kind. 

"Thank you," he rumbled. They walked to an available room as quickly as the Beast could go, as he stopped a servant to fetch more water and cloth. Despite his misgivings on whether Belle could love him at all, he felt hopeful. He had years to break the curse, and she was volunteering to help him of her own free will. They settled down by a fire, him in a chair and her by his side just as the teapot and bowl he had sent out earlier came hopping into the room. 

"Alright," Belle said, wringing out a cloth. "This might sting a little."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is the set-up complete!! But poor, mistaken Beast. The miscommunication from dear old Cogsworth might lull you into a false sense of security, and it would just be _awful_ if you thought you had plenty of time when actually you _didn't_ , wouldn't it?
> 
> Special thanks for this chapter goes to the folks at Bittersweet and Strange, who helped me with plot aspects and the probability of Belle knowing how to treat a bite wound. 
> 
> Are you excited to see these idiots fall in love? I know I am! Sadly, that might take a while bc uni and essays and blah. Anyway, prepare for re-written movie scenes and new scenes galore in the coming months!!


	13. Chapter Twelve - The Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Beast gives Belle A FREAKING LIBRARY, YOU GUYS. IT’S HAPPENING.
> 
> also some other things go on in the background.

**Chapter Twelve**

**The Library**

Over the next week or so, Belle found herself hesitantly entering into a routine of castle life. Despite the heavy curtains, she often woke up at dawn or up to hour afterwards - Maurice had never been a farmer, but an early rise was often necessary to get everything ready for the day in the little cottage. She would wash her face while the wardrobe picked out a dress with its team of assistants, which included the hairbrush Belle had first met, a comb, and a complete sewing kit. Trial and error had proved that while Belle would now trust the wardrobe's judgement, she still refused to put on a dress with any amount of beading, silk, or lace - nothing too fine. Once dressed with he aid of the assistants, she breakfasted in the kitchen, watching the other servants . . . not _chat_ , exactly, but definitely communicate. It was easy to tell who most of them were related to - the little cup Belle had met on the first night stuck close to the teapot's side whenever possible, and the candelabra had an affinity for a feather duster, while a small clock leapt around at all the servants except the teapot at regular intervals. The clock had been the one who lead her to the kitchens in the first place, so Belle never worried that she was intruding on them. 

Following breakfast she would spend most of the morning with Phillipe, hovering over his wound. The most frustrating thing about the situation, to Belle, was that there was nothing she could do for him; Phillipe's body needed to heal on its own, and only time would make that work. She still felt justified watching over him so closely, given the brief illness he'd suffered shortly before her wedding. The last thing she needed was _that_ to make a comeback while he was battling a leg wound. She didn't dare lift the bandages for a little while, so most of her time with Phillipe was spent reading the few books she had packed with her. Every time Belle looked at the blue-bound book Madame Hoen had given to her almost a month and a half ago, she felt a stab of homesickness for the life she'd had not so long ago. Madame Hoen had been right about the book; it _did_ have interesting commentary included, and Belle's boredom was kept at bay for a little while reading it and thinking about the additional points.

After lunch, which Belle traipsed back into the kitchen for, she usually attempted to help the servants with their tasks. They always shooed her away, but she couldn't help the stab of guilt she felt for sitting idle, watching her horse all day. She'd made her way roughly halfway around the castle, but she was still no closer to finding her way around unaided. Somebody would usually come and collect her for dinner, after which she would read in bed for a little while before falling asleep and repeating the whole day again. And while it was nice to have a sense of security after the nightmare of the past month and a half, Belle couldn't help feeling . . . bored. 

She felt ungrateful just thinking about it, but it was the honest truth. Until Phillipe got some strength back, all she could do was sit beside him. She only brought a few books with her, and she'd nearly finished them all off already. And there was nobody to talk to - not a single soul. 

_Well_ , she thought. _There's always the Beast._

The only problem was that Belle had seen neither hide nor hair of it since she had bound up its wound. She'd offered on impulse, and despite its frightening appearance, she didn't regret the offer. She'd seen it help the clock out that room. _A demon wouldn't bother helping a lowly servant,_ she'd thought. So Belle had offered, and it had accepted, and a little less than five minutes later she'd been afraid it would be horrifically awkward and the wrong choice.

To her surprise, it had been almost comfortable. They were both silent, but it was a gentle silence, not one filled with accusations or fear. Belle had wondered about that in the back of her mind - less than a day in its castle, and already the natural hesitance Belle felt at its monstrous form was fading - but she forced herself to focus on its wound. It didn't flinch once while she was taking care of it. She could still feel the texture of its coarse fur under her fingers if she tried; waxy and thick, although that was possibly just its winter coat. When she had finished, it had bowed its head again in the same jerky manner as when she had offered, and stalked away. The teapot had nodded at her as well, although the effect it gave was a comforting nod rather than its master's one of brusque politeness. 

Belle wondered what it said about her, that she was hungering for the company of something she had thought only a week ago was a demon longing to consume her very being.

***

The Beast had been careful to keep out of Belle's way for a week or so, to give her time to adjust to the castle and its ways. None of the servants told him where she went - how could they, after all - but with very little effort he managed to figure out that she stayed most of the day with her horse, and spent the remaining part either in her room or wandering the castle. He wondered if she was happy now that she had a place to stay, and some semblance of order. He hoped she was. 

By contrast, the Beast was feeling agitated, something he normally only felt during a hunt. It had been a week since he'd seen Belle, and while he wanted her to be comfortable around him, he hadn't spoken to her at all since then. Conversation wasn't exactly his strong point, but thinking about what to say was less important than finding a situation where he would be able to start to say something in the first place. 

"What to do?" he muttered aloud, as had become his habit. "How do I start conver . . . how do I talk to her? Been a week. What to say?" _Hello, Belle. I hope you won't mind that I've been avoiding you for a week, but I have no idea how to talk to people and the situation's become too awkward to try and pretend it was an accident._ He shook his head. It wasn't much use. She was probably perfectly fulfilled without having to spend her days with a walking, sort-of talking, animal wearing a cape. "Maybe the servants," he said, still unable to finish his sentences. "That way, will know for sure."

So the next time he saw the candelabra, whose name he still couldn't remember, the Beast beckoned him to one side. It had been hopping down the hall away from the kitchen, presumably after tasks had been handed out at breakfast time. The Beast didn't feel too guilty for calling it over from its work. It looked up at him attentively, 'hands' folded over its chest in proper servant form. 

"Need help," he muttered, a little darkly. 

The candelabra lit up - literally as well as in its body language. 

"With Belle," he explained. "Want to talk to her, but . . . how?" He cringed inwardly at the crudeness of his sentence, at how little of his intention it conveyed, but the servant appeared to understand anyway. 

The candelabra put its head in one of its hands in the classic thinking pose. After a couple of seconds, the wick on top of its head caught aflame. Excitedly, it started to hop over to the window, pointing outwards. 

"Can't take her outside. Horse isn't well yet," he reminded the servant. Its candles went out, and it sagged a little in defeat. "Book will tell her when it is well again." The candelabra started to hop away sadly, and the Beast was just as stuck as he was before. He was always stuck when it came to Belle. How to help her, how to comfort her, how to help her horse. His hope that she could break the spell was fading fast. _I wish I could just . . . take a break from all of this, even just for a few hours. Just forget about everything and read a book about different people, in a different story. I **wish** I could still read._ The Beast still had no specific memories of his time before the curse, but he had general impressions. They seemed to focus on books, most of the time. 

"That's it!" he cried. The candelabra jumped, but the Beast didn't notice, already on his feet. "She knows how to read. The library . . . we can go to the library!" He grinned at the servant, who tried and failed not to show its instinctive fear, but the Beast almost didn't care. "Ask her to come - soon - today! After the horse! And let it be a surprise!" Despite his excitement he patted the candelabra as gently as he could, as it nodded in approval. 

"Thank you!" With those final words flung over his shoulder, the Beast rushed off to the library to tidy it up, or at least to make sure it wasn't completely filthy. The two times he'd been in there since he regained his consciousness, he hadn't really been looking at the room itself. To his relief, while the library looked obviously uninhabited it wasn't a complete hovel. 

His ears pricked up suddenly, as he heard footsteps from down the hall. 

"Belle," he muttered. "Sooner than thought." His stomach seemed to flip around inside him, and he chewed on his lip nervously. _I hope she likes it,_ he thought, as he padded out the door to meet her. 

***

"Belle," the Beast rumbled. The servants that had been guiding her along the castle hallways shrank back slightly, but Belle herself stood firm. 

"Hello," she said. "How - how's your arm?" She gestured to the bandage she could just see, hidden beneath his cloak. It glanced down, as if it had forgotten it was there. 

"Good," it said. "Thank you." It fell silent, its blue eyes darting around the hall. Belle fiddled absently with the ring on her finger, hands by her sides. The servants still stood around her ankles, unsure whether to stay or go. She risked a look at the Beast, noticing that it was biting its lip. _An odd thing for it to do,_ she thought. _No odder than it presumably summoning me here, only to stay silent._

"How is horse?" The unexpectedness of the question after the painful silence nearly made Belle jump. Collecting herself, she clasped her hands together in an attempt to stop her ill-mannered fidgeting. 

"Getting on," she said. "Thank you for letting us stay." Words didn't come close to expressing the debt she owed this Beast, but it seemed to appreciate her gratitude anyway. It ducked its head, and then straightened up to almost its full height. The strange thing about it, Belle thought, was that it didn't seem to be done in a predatory way. 

"Want to show you," it said. "In here." It took a step backwards, gesturing to a large door. 

"Show me what?" Belle asked, her curiosity awakened. 

"It's a surprise," it said. 

Under any other circumstances, Belle would have assumed this to be a trap. But she remembered the gentleness the Beast had treated a servant with while unobserved, and the stillness with which it had endured her treatment of his wounds. She looked into its eyes. Painful, naked hope shone out at her. 

"Alright," Belle said, smiling a little. "Should I close my eyes?"

"No," it said. "Follow me." It opened the doors, and she followed him into a dark room - clearly very large. It smelled a little musty, and she coughed at the dust swirling around the room.

Then the Beast, who had evidently been walking much faster than Belle realised, pulled open a set of curtains, and light flooded into the room. Belle gasped. 

"I . . . I . . ." At a loss for words, she could only stare. It was a library - but not a library like the ones she had known before. They were small affairs, maybe twice the size of Madame Hoen's shop if that. This was twenty times those libraries. Books were shelved up almost to the ceiling, which arched high above her. Couches and desks were provided at regular intervals, and there were books on _those_ as well. The colours on the walls and furniture were faded, and the books were dusty and probably in need of organising, but Belle saw none of that. 

"Do you like?" She spun around to face the Beast, standing sheepishly by the last set of curtains. 

"It's _wonderful_ ," she said. "I've never seen so many books in one place! I mean . . . I almost didn't think it was possible for there to be so many." To her surprise, she felt tears in her eyes. Belle discreetly tried to wipe them away, but ended up just staring in awe at the books again. "Can I . . . ?" 

"Yes," the Beast said, without her needing to finish her question. Belle smiled, hoping it couldn't see her crying. She walked over to the nearest pile, on a desk in the middle of the room, and picked up the first book in the pile. She glanced at the title, seeing it was one she hadn't read before, and started to flick through it. She was halfway through the first chapter when she heard tapping on tiles. 

"Where are you going?" 

The Beast froze in an almost comical position, halfway to the door and walking on not-quite tiptoe. "Thought you wanted to be alone."

"You can stay, I don't mind." Belle blushed a little at her statement. "Well, I mean - of course you can stay, this is your home, I'm just a guest. But I don't mind reading with other people in the room." It relaxed, and sat on a couch diagonal to the desk Belle was reading against - not like a human, as she half expected, but curled up like a dog. 

"Is there anything you would recommend?" Belle asked. When it stiffened a split second later, she knew she had said the wrong thing. 

"Cannot even talk," it growled. "Think . . . can read?!" It glared at her for a moment, hackles rising. Just as suddenly, the anger in its blue eyes faded, and it sank onto its forearms, dejected. 

Belle paused. The book she held seemed to be burning in her hand. _This has to be the second stupidest decision I've ever made,_ she thought. "If you like," she said slowly, "I could read aloud."

It stayed silent for so long that Belle almost thought it had fallen asleep. And then, so quietly it was more a rumble than speech, she heard: "If you like."

Belle sat down against the back of the couch the Beast was lying on. She flicked back to the start of the book, and cleared her throat a little. She could hear its steady breathing behind her, as regular as clockwork. 

"Just so you know," she said, "I like to do voices when I read. This is a play, too, so hopefully you'll be able to tell who's who. It's a little confusing at first, cause there's a lot of people introduced quickly, but it'll clear itself up." She cleared her throat again, sniffed, and began to read. "Act One, Scene One. Before Leonato's house. Enter Leonato, Hero, and Beatrice, with a messenger. 'I learn in this letter . . .'"

From the doorway, the servants who had guided Belle to the library exchanged hopeful glances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the library scene. It's my absolute favourite Grand Gesture scene ever. This library scene was a complete pain to write, so I only hope I did okay with it. 
> 
> Excerpts that did not make it into this draft include:
> 
> Beast, while brooding: Belle is probably perfectly fulfilled without talking to a buffalo monster . . . in a cape!
> 
> The word 'Baest'. 
> 
> In *ambiguous time period* France, we have Shakespeare! And probably some Victorian authors as well, but that might come into play later on. I chose Much Ado About Nothing as opposed to Romeo and Juliet because a) R+J, while brilliant, is not really a love story so much as a tragedy, and reading about a teenage couple killing themselves and five other people isn't really the best mood-setter ever; b) Beatrice and Benedick are my favourite Shakespeare non-murder couple so far and their constant bickering reminds me of canon BatB.
> 
> Until next time!!


	14. Chapter Thirteen - The Husband

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the beginning, middle, and end of a friendship is documented.

**Chapter Thirteen**

**The Husband**

The tavern was fuller than was normally expected for a November night. Monsieur Cotard was playing his fiddle loudly in a corner somewhere, a small group of people attempting to dance in the limited space in front of him. The usual suspects drank alone at the bar, observing the goings-on as they had done for at least two generations. The sheer amount of people present meant that the cheerfully burning log fire was almost unnecessary, at least for generating heat. Laughter, clinking of glasses and the loud hum of half a village filled the air; all things normal to the tavern, though not usually to this extent. The triplets, who served as barmaids most evenings, ducked and weaved their way around the room, only sometimes letting themselves get pulled onto a customer's lap. But that evening, Gaston saw none of it.

"Gaston," one of the triplets said as she moved behind the bar, "we need more beer from the cellar." 

"What?" he asked, snapping out of his daze.

"More beer," she repeated. 

"We've already taken out three casks," he said. "That's usually plenty."

"Have you _seen_ this place tonight?" she said, shooting him a pointed look. "This is the busiest we've been since August."

"Oh," he said limply. Glancing around the room, the amount of people in the tavern registered for the first time. "Oh," he said again, understanding the dilemma. "Alright, then. I'll be right back, Thêrese."

"I'm _Celeste_. Thêrese is over there" she huffed, gesturing to the corner where M. Cotard was sitting. But Gaston was already going into the back room that led to the cellar door. She rolled her eyes a little. If he hadn't been married, she might have followed him, and tried something in the darkness of the back room - as she had already done many times in the past. But for Celeste, at least, Gaston's charms had ceased to affect her once he became unavailable. Sighing, she picked up a cloth and started to wipe down the bar. At least she could do something useful while Gaston was looking for the barrels. 

In the cellar, Gaston barely made sure he was out of sight before leaning his head against the wall. The cool stone soothed his aching head a little, and he tried to steady his breathing a little. _Too close, Gaston,_ he thought. _She noticed something was wrong._ He clenched his teeth. It drove him mad to think of how close Thêrese - or Celeste, or whichever one she was - had come to finding out his secret. Not as mad as he had been when he'd found it out himself, though.

Once his breathing had evened out, Gaston stood up straight again. He found the cask the triplet had been looking for, and headed back up the stairs. All he had to do was avoid questions for a few more hours. _Only a few more hours, Gaston,_ he thought. 

And then he would be able to find his missing wife.

***

"Papa?" Gaston didn't _tug_ at his father's sleeve - he was eleven years old, far too manly for a display like that - but he _yanked_ firmly. 

"What is it?" Tall, dark, and looming, Monsieur Avenant shot a glance at his son. 

"Who's that man?" Gaston pointed to the other side of the fairly quiet square. A short man with a greying moustache was sat by a shop window, looking at some sort of paper. "He looks lost."

"I don't know," his father said slowly. "Wait here. I'm going to see what he's doing." As M. Avenant strode purposefully towards the man, Gaston sighed a little. He'd wanted to talk to the man _himself_ , not have his father do it for him! Scowling, he kicked at some stones in the middle of the road. He looked over, and saw his father talk to the stranger with the same smile he used on new customers at the tavern. Sticking his hands in his pockets, Gaston wondered if he would be able to sneak over and hear what was happening without his father noticing. 

As if M. Avenant had heard his son's thoughts, he turned around sharply and beckoned Gaston over. His smile was genuine now, and despite his resentment, Gaston was curious. It wasn't every stranger that got past his father's business façade. He hurried to his father's side, pulling his hands out his pockets as he went. It wasn't very manly to be slovenly. 

"As I was saying, this is my son Gaston," M. Avenant said, placing his hands on Gaston's shoulders. Gaston looked up at the man in front of him - not that he needed to look very far up. At eleven, he was already showing signs of another large growth spurt - a welcome one, in Gaston's opinion. He needed to grow really fast _and_ really tall if he was going to be as big as his Papa. 

"Hello," he said after a nudge from his father. 

"Hello, Gaston," the stranger said. He looked up again, addressing M. Avenant. "How old is he?"

"He turned eleven in January." He patted Gaston's shoulder hard. 

"I have a daughter about the same age," the stranger said. "She had her eighth birthday last week. In fact . . ." The man looked around sharply. "Belle? Belle!?" The panic in his voice was palpable. Gaston frowned. Why was he so worried? It wasn't as if she'd been taken away somewhere. It was only a small village. 

"Papa, I'm here!" A small girl clambered out a cart a few feet away. She stopped to pet the large horse harnessed in, before running into her father's arms. "You told me to stay in the cart, remember?"

"So I did," the man sighed, smiling again now that he had his daughter. "Belle, this is Gaston. Why don't you go and play with him for a little bit while I talk with M. Avenant?"

"Okay!" The girl smiled at her father, all dimples and a missing tooth. M. Avenant gently pushed Gaston towards the girl. 

"Come on," he muttered. Not once, but _twice_ now he'd been pushed away from Papa today! If he was such a man, why couldn't he talk with the men like Papa did? Glancing back at M. Avenant for approval quickly, Gaston took the girl's hand and led her to the fountain. He managed to get a good look at her once they were both sitting down. She had wavy brown hair, and dark brown eyes the same colour, but the most noticeable thing was her clothes. They were all black, from her hair ribbon to the socks he could see peeking out above her shoes. He knew what it meant when you only wore black - he'd had to wear it only three years ago, for his mother. The girl looked awfully young to be wearing mourning, even though Gaston had been the same age when _he_ wore it. He wondered who in the girl's family had died.

After a minute, he realised she was looking at him as intently as he was looking at her. Gaston scowled, despite his sympathy for the girl. There was something weird in her eyes when she was looking at him - it wasn't the way she had looked two seconds ago. He glared at her, and to his surprise, she met his gaze. Dark brown eyes stared into sky-blue. He blinked once, twice. 

"I win!" she laughed. 

"What?" he said. 

"I thought we were doing a staring contest," she said. 

"No we weren't! I would've won if it was a contest!" he said. "I'm the _best_ at staring contests, and spitting, and throwing, _and_ shooting!" The girl frowned. "Well, almost," he amended. "I can't shoot yet, but when I can, I'll be the best there ever was!"

"Okay," was all she said. Gaston couldn't help feeling like she wasn't that impressed. The other girls in the village all thought he was the greatest. It didn't feel nice to have this girl shrug her shoulders at his list of achievements.

"I - I'm going to learn how to hunt, and track animals, and sword fight -"

"Like a pirate?!" The girl looked a lot more interested than she had a minute ago. It didn't really matter what she thought of him - she was only a girl, after all. But a quick glance at his father showed that he was still talking to Belle's father, and there would be no questions asked of Gaston right now. 

"Yeah," Gaston said. "My papa's going to show me. I can already do it with sticks, but he'll show me how to use just my hands."

"I wish _I_ knew how to sword fight," Belle said sadly. 

"Don't be silly," he said. "You're just a girl. You can't fight."

"Oh yeah?" She looked angry at that, and if it weren't for the fact she was a lot smaller than him, Gaston would have been intimidated by the look in her eyes. "I could beat you in a fight. I'd make you run away screaming."

"I'm not scared of you," he scoffed. It was funny to think of this tiny little girl making _him_ , Gaston Avenant, run away screaming.

"I could _make_ you scared of me," she said, refusing to back down. "I could tell you a story so scary your hair turns grey."

"People can't do that! That's not true!" Gaston cried. 

"Yes it is! I told one to Papa, and look at him!" She pointed, and Gaston looked again. Belle's father _did_ have lots of grey hair. "I could scare you better than you could fight someone off." Although he tried not to show it, Gaston got excited. _A competition! You'll definitely win this one - it's just a little girl!_

"Alright," he said. "You can try and scare me with a story. If I win . . ." He stopped to think for a minute. "If I win, you have to say that I'm better than you at _everything_ , and you can't _ever_ take it back." _That'll teach her,_ he thought smugly. 

"And if _I_ win?" she asked. 

"I'll teach you how to fight, if you want," he said, shrugging his shoulders. It wouldn't ever happen, anyway. He was almost a man now, and men didn't get scared of ghost stories told by little girls. "Deal?" He put out his hand. 

"Deal," she said, putting her little one in his. Gaston smirked. She looked so serious, burrowing her eyebrows together as if she was already thinking up a story. It was so stupid. He was better than any girl could ever be. This would be easy.

***

Swinging his stick wildly above his head, Gaston ran towards Belle's back. She spun around at the last second, bringing her own stick up to parry, but it was too late. Gaston's momentum knocked the stick out her hand, and threw the two of them onto the grassy ground. He felt the collision jar in his elbows and knees, but that didn't stop the little thrill that ran through him. 

"I win!" he cried triumphantly. 

"Foul!" she yelled. "You surprised me by attacking from behind!"

"I won, Belle," he said smugly. "It doesn't matter how I did it, I still beat you." He sat up on his haunches, and Belle pushed away to sit up as well. He could see her bony knees poking out the thin cotton of her dress, now covered in grass stains. "It's like in your pirate stories," he continued. "It doesn't matter how Blackbeard wins, just that he does."

"But Blackbeard's the bad guy," Belle said. "You're supposed to fight fair when you're good." Gaston stopped to think at that. 

"I still beat you," he said, "but next time I won't sneak up behind you." She smiled. "At least, not until you're good enough to beat _me_."

"We've been doing this for two years," Belle said, frowning again. "I could beat you easy-peasy."

"I'm still winning," Gaston said. "Let's go add it to the board." He leapt to his feet, giving Belle a hand to help her up. Grumbling, she followed him into the beginning of the forest. There was a large oak tree only a minute away from the village, that had been struck by lightning the summer after they first met. It had split in two, and the flat inner trunk of the tree had been deemed the perfect place to record the two children's wins and losses. Picking up the sharp stick they normally used, Gaston carved the small line into the tree. 

"I should probably go back home now," Gaston said when he was done. "Papa will be looking for me. I was supposed to help count the wine barrels today."

"Alright," Belle said.

"Do you want to walk back in with me?" he asked. "I don't mind going the long way by your house."

"It's okay," Belle said chirpily. "I want to read out here for a bit anyway."

Gaston felt something drop in his stomach a little, which was weird, because he'd had lunch over an hour ago. "Why do you like reading so much, anyway?" he asked. "It's just words on a page."

"When I tell you stories, it's just words in the air," she said. "You like hearing them, right?"

"Yeah," he said quickly. Belle was a really good storyteller. "I didn't know you got them from those." He gestured at the book (really more of a pamphlet) that Belle had pulled out her apron pocket. "I thought you made them up."

"Some of them I did," she said. "Most of them I get from Madame Hoen."

"Papa says she's odd," Gaston said slowly.

Belle's face seemed lost in thought for a minute. "I like her anyway," she announced. "And you like her stories, so you have to like her, too."

"Not the boring ones," he said. "Fairies and princes and spells - it's just girl stuff." Belle frowned. "What?" he asked. "It is!"

"I don't like mud-rolling, or spitting, either. _That's_ boring." 

"I thought you liked that stuff!" Gaston said. 

"I thought _you_ liked the stories!" she retorted. 

"I do," he said. "The pirates and adventure and heroes - I really like them!"

"I like the stick fighting, and the other fighting! I'm sorry I called the stuff you like boring."

"That's okay," Gaston said. She looked at him expectantly, a little less upset than she had seemed a minute ago. "It's settled, then."

"What is?" she asked, confused. 

"You don't do the fairy stuff, and I don't do the . . . uh . . . the stuff you said. Deal?"

Belle hesitated for a moment. Gaston could see the wheels in her brain turning, but he couldn't guess what she was thinking. It was an obvious solution to him. Papa wasn't happy about the fairytales (not that Gaston liked them much either), and he was sure Maurice wasn't thrilled about the spitting and mud-rolling, even though Belle's father never seemed mad that she came home all muddy and was learning how to fight. It was the best of both worlds, and this way Belle and Gaston both got what they wanted. He wasn't sure how he'd stop fighting with her altogether, like Papa had ordered, but Gaston knew he'd figure it out - he was the best at everything, after all, and that included making plans.

"Okay," Belle said. "Deal."

***

When Gaston heard about what had happened to Maurice, he ran straight over to Belle's house, even though he hadn't been excused by his father yet. One of the things he liked about working in his father's tavern - besides the attention he received from the patrons - was the fact that you knew everything that was going on. Usually, that meant boring gossip like who was going to marry who, and when, or how the crops were blighted again that year. 

Today, it meant something much worse. 

Gaston's feet pounded against the cobblestones of the street, his heart racing. It wasn't because of the physical exertion - he'd run faster than this in the forest, and for longer, too. It was because of the sick feeling in his stomach, which only got worse with each sympathetic look from the villagers as he raced by. He almost wondered why, if Maurice and Papa were on such good terms, Papa hadn't done anything to try stop it. But Gaston was too focused on getting to Belle to think much. It wasn't good to think a lot, anyway, as Papa said. So Gaston just concentrated on running as fast as his lanky teenage legs could carry him.

By the time he reached Belle's house, he was almost completely out of breath. He knocked heavily on the door, leaning against it to catch his breath. When there was no answer, he kept knocking, again, and again, and again. 

"Belle?" he called. "Belle, it's me, open up!" He took another deep, sucking breath, trying to steady his breathing. "Are you alright? I came as soon as I heard." He leaned against the door. "Belle?" he asked again. "Let me in."

The door opened, and Gaston felt sick at the sight of his friend. Belle looked like she'd been crying for hours, even though Maurice could only have been taken away twenty minutes ago. Her eyes were red and puffy, her nose was running, and the top collar of her dress was wet with tears. She stood stoic for a moment, the two of them locked in place for what felt like forever, when she suddenly crumpled again. Gaston didn't know what to do. He'd never had to comfort somebody before - that was what mothers were for. Carefully, he placed his hand on her shoulder, before drawing her into a tentative hug. 

"I c-can't believe they took him," he heard Belle mumble eventually. "They just _took_ him!"

"It'll sort itself out," Gaston said. "Papa'll go on over, I bet. Monsieur D'Arc can't keep people there if they're not crazy. I don't know why Maurice even got taken there."

"I think -" Belle paused as she gathered her breath. "I think he said that Papa had a fit."

Gaston drew back slightly. "So he _is_ crazy?" he asked. 

"Of course he's not!" Belle shouted, shoving Gaston the rest of the way out their hug. "My father's _not_ crazy!"

"If he had a fit -" Gaston started. He was trying to give Belle a reasonable explanation for it - she was only twelve, she couldn't understand how the insane mind worked - not that Gaston knew much about it himself. Still, at fifteen and almost an adult proper, Gaston knew more about the world than her little books could ever teach her. But instead of it helping, Belle's eyes grew narrow and cold. 

"My father is _not_ crazy!" she yelled. "A fit doesn't mean he's insane! This is - it's unlawful detention!"

Gaston blinked. He didn't have the faintest idea what Belle meant by 'unlawful detention', but he was pretty sure that she was just being too emotional to see everything rationally. He decided to try the conversation again. It didn't matter too much whether Maurice really was crazy or not. What mattered was that his friend had nearly cried herself dry because her father had been taken away. 

"Belle," he said softly. She didn't immediately yell at him again, which Gaston took as a good thing. "Come with me. You can stay at the tavern until Maurice gets . . . better." She looked at him stiffly. 

"No, thank you," Belle said. "I'll stay here. Or I'll go to Madame Cotard's."

"Fine," Gaston muttered. He stomped away towards the village, pretending he didn't notice when he heard Belle start crying again. He was trying to be reasonable and _help_ her. Why did she have to be so irrational about it? Why did she have to be such a . . . such a _girl_ about it all - about ,i >everything? If it had been _his_ Papa, Gaston knew he would have cried a lot less. Men weren't supposed to cry, anyway. 

Still, despite Gaston's anger at Belle, he couldn't help feeling upset about the whole business, for some reason he couldn't quite figure out. All he knew was that even though Maurice was released in less than a week, and Belle had come looking for Gaston without wanting an apology in even less time, Maurice never came around to the tavern again while M. Avenant was alive. Belle wouldn't accept the little gifts the baker or haberdasher gave her anymore. And the sad, sick feeling in Gaston's stomach would resurface like clockwork, every time his father brought Maurice up in conversation and said his name with disgust.

***

"So that's an . . . eagle?" Belle guessed. 

"Shh," Gaston whispered. "You'll frighten it if you talk too loud. And no, it's not an eagle. It's a kestrel." Gaston looked up again at the bird of prey, perched only a few trees away from them. "Look," he whispered. "I think it's about to fly off." Sure enough, the bird shuffled its wings, and took off into the air. The two teenagers continued looking after it for a long moment, crouched behind the tree where they used to play, years ago. "A book couldn't have taught you how to see _that_ ," he said smugly. 

"It could have taught me how it _felt_ to see it," Belle said. "Get the right words, and you can see or do anything."

"And forget about real life at the same time," he laughed, tugging on the end of her ponytail. He'd missed this - their friendly banter, spending time together. He didn't feel too guilty about the little speech he'd promised Papa he'd say to Belle that day.

At least, he tried not to feel too guilty. 

Belle scowled a little, although whether at the hair-tugging or something else, Gaston wasn't sure. "Don't frown, Belle. You're too pretty to wear your face out like that." He could see her turn red out the corner of his eye, as he scanned the horizon for any other animals, and Gaston felt a little surge of triumph. He'd been wondering which compliments worked best on girls; Belle's flush meant this would _definitely_ work on the triplets. 

"Excuse me?" Belle said in a low voice. 

_She's embarrassed!_ Gaston thought. _That worked better than I thought!_

"Well, you see -"

"I'll do whatever I want, Gaston Avenant!" 

_Oh no,_ he thought. _Angry. She's angry._

"Come on, Belle," he said soothingly. "You know I didn't mean it like that." 

"Sure," she said scathingly. Her scorn stung his pride. _I was only trying to pay her a compliment! If that's the way she wants to play it, then **fine**._

"Alright, then," he said, standing up. "I'm leaving."

"Bye," she said, close to her normal voice. She pulled a book out the small basket she had brought with her, and settled down on her back to read. 

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," he muttered. 

"What?" Belle sat up, laying her book aside. 

"You're really keeping this up? After all these years?" 

"Keeping _what_ up?" She got to her feet, defiantly standing wide. 

"The reading," Gaston said. _Surely_ it was obvious what he meant. "It was one thing when we were kids, messing around with sticks and stories, but _now_?" Agitated, he ran a hand through his hair. "Belle, you're thirteen, not a child! That thing you said about words a minute ago - I thought you were just making a joke, but I guess you didn't outgrow it after all. You're going to have to get your head out of the clouds and start doing more womanly things if you want people to take you seriously!"

"This isn't a childish phase, Gaston!" she retorted. "I love reading, I always have. The same way you love hunting, or fighting, or winning! I've never yelled at _you_ for sticking with those, even when you stopped teaching me!"

"Hunting and fighting isn't childish!" he shouted. "It's a way to provide, to prove I'm the best! _This_?" He yanked the book out of Belle's hands, before throwing it over his shoulder. "It's putting ideas in your head that should never be there in the first place! That's insane, Belle!" He only realised what he had said the moment after the words had come out his mouth. Belle's face turned white, fire burning in her eyes.

"So you think I'm crazy, like my father, do you?" she said calmly. _Too calmly,_ Gaston thought. 

"People - people _wonder_ ," he said viciously. He didn't even care that they'd been having a good time together only a few minutes ago. Belle couldn't keep up with this childish nonsense and expect to be treated like an adult at the same time! And the _idea_ that she'd insulted him, when she couldn't do _half_ the things he could! "They wonder why I still talk to you in the market."

"Really?" For the first time in a long while, Belle looked hurt. He hadn't seen her look quite like that since her father had been taken away. "They think I'm crazy?"

"No," he said scathingly. She was back to staring at him, scrutinising his every move. "They wonder why I still talk to you because you're so little."

"And?" 

" _And_ , I'm sixteen," Gaston said, folding his arms as he turned away from her. "I'm too old for these stupid fairy stories, and so are you."

"They're not stupid," Belle said. 

"Yes, they are. That's why I asked you out here today. To tell you we can't be friends anymore."

"Because of what some people say!?" 

"Because of what _everybody_ says!" He grit his teeth. "It's _weird_ for me to be friends with you when you're a girl."

"You talk to the triplets!"

"They're older than you, that's different!"

"You mean they're normal?"

"Yes!"

"And I'm not?"

"Yes! If you want to have friends, you'll need to stop acting so - so _odd_ and grow up!"

"I'm not odd!"

"Yes you are! You're just like your father!" Gaston didn't even care what he was saying anymore. He just wanted to win the fight, like he won every other fight, so he could leave Belle behind and finally grow up into the man he was meant to be. "He's crazy, but at least he acts like he's meant to! You can't even do _that_ right! You let me try and teach you to fight, like a boy! Well, you know what?" Gaston was so worked up that he didn't even bother looking at Belle to see her reaction. He just wanted to let it out. "You're just a _stupid, strange_ little girl who's too _dumb_ to realise that I don't even like you anymore!"

He turned around to face Belle, his anger finally spent. She was standing on a fallen tree trunk next to him, legs shoulder-length apart and arms braced. He thought he could see tears beading up in her eyes, even while her face was screwed up in anger. But before Gaston even had time to move again, she let out a guttural scream, and punched him in the face. 

After that, everything was black.

***

When he came to, Belle had been obviously crying. Still, she didn't apologise. Just walked with him to the town outskirts, then ran back home. Gaston was doubly humiliated. For the strongest boy in the village to be knocked out cold for twenty minutes - and by little Belle Dupont? He was a laughingstock for weeks. He only saw Belle once again that summer. She had come to the tavern, carrying something in her arms covered by a cloth. 

"Where have you been?" Gaston asked. 

"At home," she said. "Papa took away all my books, too. He says I won't get them back till the leaves change colour." Had Belle been any other child, it would have sounded horrifically mild, compared to what Gaston would have gotten had he hit _her_. Gaston knew her, though. Belle being confined to the house for three weeks, without her _precious_ books? It would have been torture for her. He was glad.

"Are you sorry you hit me?" he asked. He could see her turn red as she turned her eyes to the floor.

"Are _you_ sorry you insulted my father?" she returned, after a short pause. Gaston's pride balked. She had punched him in the _face_ , and then had the _nerve_ to ask for an apology from _him_ first!? 

"No," he said. 

"Then neither am I," she said. She swept out the tavern, keeping whatever mysterious item she had brought in with her under the cloth.

Years passed. Monsieur Avenant eventually died when Gaston was eighteen. He only felt relief. His father had contracted a long illness; his death was like a release. Most of the bar patrons cried. Gaston didn't. _What kind of man cries so easily?_ He took over the tavern as a side juncture, in case of poor hunting spoils. He talked to the triplets more often; they were nice enough - good for a dark corner of the tavern on a Saturday night - but not wife material. He heard from them that Belle had regretted hitting him almost immediately, but was too stubborn and proud to apologise at the time. Gaston wasn't sure why they brought it up in the first place. In the span of the years, he only caught glimpses of Belle in his day-to-day life, after all. She had turned out to be beautiful. Still a reader, but popular with the other villagers. They had reached the stage of nodding civilly to each other when they passed in the street, when Gaston heard the voice for the first time.

He was clearing up the tavern for the night when he heard it. _Belle would make a good wife. She's beautiful and well-known in the village. Nobody even remembers what she did to you anymore. She'd be a good companion._ It was an old woman's voice, but not like any old woman Gaston had ever heard. It didn't frighten him, strangely enough. It raised a good point. He was almost twenty, and hadn't courted anybody seriously yet. Leaving aside her stubbornness, which time might have mellowed, she had been a good playmate when they were children. 

_Tomorrow,_ he thought. _I'll start slow - she'll want to be courted. But I'll start tomorrow._

_Try to get her friendship,_ the voice said. _Then prepare the wedding. Get her to say yes as quickly as possible. She reads too much; if you let her think about it, she'll reject you._

The voice had been right about Belle being a good companion, but it had been wrong about the thinking. Sure, Gaston had needed to complain of his plight to a few old family friends to get the ball rolling and start up the gossip mill; he'd had to suffer a little humiliation at Belle's hands in front of his peers for the second time in his life. But it had been worth it. Because now he had the greatest prize of all: a wife. 

He'd considered calling in a favour with Monsieur D'Arc to speed up the process, but the thought of Belle's anger when she would inevitably find out dissuaded him. Maurice being taken anyway was sheer good luck. He did feel a little bad on Belle's behalf, though. She kept insisting her father wasn't insane, even though this was his second admission to the Maison; what was worse, she seemed to think _he'd_ admitted Maurice. _Just her emotions clouding her judgement like always,_ he rationalised. Gaston had seen Maurice's fit for himself, and he still shuddered when thinking about it for too long. Sane men didn't move like that.

Given her struggle to accept what was really happening, it was no wonder his wife insisted on keeping separate beds. Gaston thought she would have appreciated somebody to hold, like the first time Maurice was taken away, but she must have changed a little. Gaston hadn't felt the need to worry about it; he was the most handsome man in the village, she'd come around eventually. Of course, if it didn't happen before the end of the year, he might have to take matters into his own hands again. But in general, his wife was as obedient as he could have hoped. True, their old rapport didn't reappear, and she spent most of her time glaring at him, but on the other hand, Belle hadn't complained at all when he didn't let her take any books into the house, so evidently some of these changes were for the better. _The perfect companion, for the best guy in town, he'd thought._

At least, until she'd run away - with the horse, no less - without leaving so much as a note.

After he closed up the tavern for the night, Gaston walked back to his house as quickly as he could. If he was going to find his wife in the woods with as little suspicion as possible, he needed to start looking tonight. There was only so long a woman could be ill in the house before somebody called the doctor, after all. He gathered his usual hunting gear together, locked the door behind him, and started walking through the woods, in the rough direction of the Maison des Lunes. He didn't need to read books every hour of every day to know that was where his wife was going. He'd been thinking about it non-stop all week. If the tavern hadn't needed his urgent attention like it did at this time every year, he would have left already, but for him to leave at a time like this would have aroused suspicion. _Still, I'm going now,_ he thought. _I can get my wife back, make sure that lunatic never gets out of the Maison, and nobody will be any the wiser._ He tugged his cloak around himself a little tighter, and tramped further into the dark, cold woods he'd spent so much of his life in.

Across the ocean, an old woman with a glowing emerald ring began to feel the first surges of panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I had so many thoughts about Gaston.
> 
> I've never actually written from his POV before, so I hope this was effective both showing his movie-character and the changes I've made in this AU - i.e., he actually likes Belle and doesn't see her solely as property. I mean, he's still douchebag No. 1, but not in the same way as the film. 
> 
> Huge thanks to TrudiRose on fan fiction.net, for suggesting I write a Gaston POV chapter in the first place. She helped me realise I wasn't very clear about his motivations and character for this setting, and has left fantastic concrit for me, which I hugely appreciate as a writer. 
> 
> I don't think I could have split this in two without it being jarring, but at the same time this is monstrously huge, so if you're wondering what went down at the proposal scene, don't fret, that'll be told later on. 
> 
> Some notes: LeFou isn't here, because if Belle is Gaston's best bud I don't really think he needs a lackey. LeFou kind of reinforces all of Gaston's negative attributes by never challenging them: my aim was to show how he would have changed a little because of Belle's influence. Of course, that's not to say it's LeFou's fault Gaston is a huge d-bag; Gaston is very much a product of his environment and really shows the dangers of toxic masculinity. So he's a little more sensitive, and slightly less derogatory to women, but still a massive tool. 
> 
> Also, in case anybody isn't clear on this, Belle was NOT JUSTIFIED in hitting Gaston so hard. Her 'side' (by which I mean her regrets she sees with hindsight) will also be seen later. She was wrong to hit him, no matter how upset she was feeling, and I definitely don't condone doing this, ever. 
> 
> This marks the end of the pre-written chapters. All following updates will come as and when written, and will be cross-posted to ff.net under the same title and username. :D


	15. Chapter Fourteen - Doubts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some bonds are made, and others are tested.

**Chapter Fourteen**

**Doubts**

As the weeks passed, the Beast found himself looking forwards more and more to the few hours he spent each day in the library with Belle. Her normally melodic voice could change suddenly into a cranky old man's, or a devious villain, at the drop of a hat. Her delivery was spectacular, as well; she had an innate sense of comedic timing that always sent the Beast into low spurts of laughter. The first time it had happened, on that first meeting in the library, he'd smelt the adrenaline pouring off her from behind the couch. A second later, he could almost see her relax again, and continue on with the play. He'd started laughing again only a few minutes later, and while she had still jumped, it had appeared to be out of the suddenness of the sound. They soon found their feet around each other; sooner than the Beast had anticipated or even hoped, given his current situation. 

About a week later, he'd been startled to hear her crying as she read. Awkwardly, he pulled himself to a sitting position, and peered over the back of the sofa. He could only see the top of Belle's head, as her dress - yellow, green, or red, he couldn't tell - puddled around her feet. 

"Are you alright?" he asked hesitantly. 

"Hmm?" she asked, stopping her sobbing immediately and turning to face him. Tears glimmered in her eyes, and the Beast thought absently that they highlighted the dark colour admirably. 

"You were . . . crying." To his surprise, Belle smiled, breathing out the ghost of a laugh. 

"Acting!" she said. "I'm fine. I just sometimes get really involved in what the words say." The smile slipped to one side. "That's probably a strange thing to feel."

"No," he protested. "I understand what you mean. The words . . ." _They create a whole other universe, one where I don't have to worry about anything._ "They make me forget. Take me to Beatrice and Benedick." And, apparently, weren't strong enough to let him speak his mind freely. 

Belle didn't seem to mind the simplicity of his sentence, however. That strange look was on her face again - the one she'd worn when she'd offered to bandage him up. Wordlessly, she stood up and settled on the sofa where he was sitting. They were at completely different ends, but the Beast couldn't help feeling like she was close enough to reach out and touch him, if she so desired. Belle continued to read the play, and the next day she sat on the sofa without prompting. 

If the Beast could have wished for anything else, he would have wished to be able to read once more - to be able to be a participant in the world of the play Belle was creating for his ears. However, while his reading stagnated, other aspects began to flourish. 

For one thing, he could remember a little more about the castle and its occupants, day by day. In his memory, the candelabra used to be a tall, skinny maître d' who always got on the nerves of the head butler - a rather large man who was now the small clock the Beast had helped out of the library. He'd thought his mind was playing tricks on him for a moment - the result of an uneasy night's dreaming - until he saw the candelabra and clock having a silent argument in the middle of the hallway, when they thought nobody was looking. The candelabra's flaming arms had come dangerously close to the polished wood of the clock more than a few times as the two gesticulated, but the Beast reasoned that they'd been doing this for long enough to know what was safe and what wasn't. The teapot was also familiar; he thought she had been a housekeeper of some sort, although he had many memories (dim and distant, as all his memories except of the curse were) of spending time with her that seemed to disprove the theory.

For another, he was finding that he actually wanted to wear clothes again. When some servants laid out a shirt and trousers, he'd had doubts, but to the Beast's surprise, they fitted well. He had no idea how they'd appeared. _Maybe they belonged to somebody, once,_ he thought. _Or maybe they're like the food in the pantry - they just appeared by magic._ He didn't let it bother him too much. The clothes were a little uncomfortable on top of his fur coat, and he couldn't move quite as freely as he could before, but it didn't matter. Because his apparent ability to remember the servants from before the curse, and his desire to wear clothes, all logically pointed to one conclusion.

Despite the months he'd spent without conscious thought, and his horrible, monstrous form, the Beast was still undeniably human. 

To complement this thought, the Beast had gone to the next logical step; standing and walking like a man. It made his back legs ache more than a day's hunt ever had, but he still felt compelled to do it whenever he caught sight of someone, whether it was Belle or the mantel clock. _Stand up straight,_ he'd remind himself with a hint of laughter. He had impressions of everybody telling him this; the people he assumed were his parents, the teapot, the clock - especially the clock. _I hardly need reminding nowadays, do I?_ The only exceptions he made to this were when he needed to move quickly, or if he was outside. He had seen Belle from afar a few times while he paced the grounds on all fours, but he didn't feel the need to straighten up from that distance. _More like I don't trust myself not to immediately fall over,_ he thought. 

The Beast woke up later than usual one day soon afterwards, the sky dull and overcast. He looked out the window and sighed; both at his unexpected lie-in and at the weather. By his guess, he would have just enough time to get outside as usual, and no more. He dressed himself clumsily, leaving his usual cloak aside and only putting on a shirt and trousers. It wasn't as if he _needed_ the clothes, but it made him feel better to at least wear _something_ when it was horrible outside. He slipped down the hallways quickly and quietly, leaping over staircases when it was convenient. He was out a side door in less than five minutes, and padding on all fours past the stable door, already longing to run.

"Good morning, Beast!" 

If he hadn't recognised Belle's scent the moment he walked out the castle, he might have jumped out of his skin at the suddenness of her greeting. She was leaning against the door, her cheeks rosy in the crisp winter air. He could recognise the colour of dress she wore; blue as the sky when it wasn't covered in clouds like today. Small blades of hay stuck to Belle's hair, which seemed to be escaping the ribbon that feebly tried to keep it away from her face. 

"Good morning," he managed, somehow getting to his feet without making a complete fool of himself. "You're . . ." _Early._ "Not usually here."

"I was a little worried about Phillipe," she said. "He's not gotten worse - he's just not gotten better, either." She started to walk in the direction of the grounds slowly, and the Beast fell in step with her. 

"Are the servants treating him well?" he asked. 

"As best as they can manage, which means not much better than me." Belle smirked. "It's just frustrating. Not just for me, either - I can't imagine _you're_ feeling thrilled at the prospect of a further imposition."

"Oh, no -" he protested. "Really, it's -"

"No bother?" she completed. She sighed, pulling her cloak a little tighter. "You all keep saying that."

"It's true," the Beast replied. "There hasn't been a guest for . . . a very long time. They're glad to have you here." He glanced at Belle, but she didn't seem to notice his word choice or think it odd. She was looking straight ahead, the ever-present winter wind dishevelling her hair. They walked on in silence for a stretch, before he heard Belle take a small breath, almost a gasp, as if gathering courage. 

"How long has it been since you had company?" she asked.

The Beast froze internally, although he didn't change his pace. _Can I tell her the truth?_ he wondered. _No, of course not,_ he realised a moment later. _She'd run. And I'd never have a chance like this again, not even in the next five years._

"Not sure," he said, semi-truthfully. "Time passes strangely here, when on your own."

She hummed in response. 

"The reading helps," he said. "That's _certainly_ not a further imposition." He caught her eye, smiling, and Belle laughed. The warm glow of satisfaction was almost enough to make him forget his aching hind legs. "Do you enjoy it? I've not met many peasant girls who can read."

"My father taught me," Belle said. "He's an inventor; I cut my teeth on his diagrams and plans. Literally, to his dismay." The Beast chuckled, and Belle relaxed her shoulders slightly. "We used to live in a much bigger town, so there was lots to read, but in the village there's only one bookshop, and it's not very well-used." Her eyes seemed to focus on the little shop from her past, and the Beast felt as if she had half-forgotten him already. "Madame Hoen didn't mind, though. She owned it, and ran it all by herself. She used to let me borrow books from there - all sorts of daring adventures and fairy stories."

"Was Much Ado there?" he asked. 

"Yes," she said. "A few other comedies, too, but it was a tiny shop; there was barely anything there to read. I think I've reread the entire shop three times by now."

"What else do you like?" A small frown appeared on Belle's forehead, and she slowed. 

"What do you mean?"

"I know you like reading, but do you have any other hobbies?" The Beast shrugged, unsure how to respond when Belle was reacting so strangely. "I'm just curious."

"Not really," she said flatly. "Reading's kind of all I do. I used to want to play piano, but then we moved, and that was the end of that, really." They had reached the pine tree closest to the castle walls by now, and as they walked back to the stables, neither Belle nor the Beast spoke. 

"What about you?" she asked at the stable doors. "Any interests? Hobbies?" 

"Reading," he said. "Well, I used to read. I played a little, too."

"Chess?" Belle asked, her cheerfulness restored a little. 

"No, not like a game, an instru-" He broke off at Belle's grin. "You're teasing me?"

"Is that allowed?" she asked. 

He laughed, and she joined him, their voices meeting an agreeable harmony. He liked the way she laughed - not delicately, the way he thought girls laughed, but with her whole body. You could really feel that she was laughing because something was _funny_ , not just to be polite, he mused. It felt refreshing, although the Beast wasn't sure why. _Probably because you don't remember if people laughed, before the curse,_ he thought. He only realised he had stopped laughing when he didn't hear Belle's voice alongside it. He looked at her, and the same unreadable expression was on her face. _You think you're human, but you can't even begin to guess what Belle's thinking! This is **one** woman, and there are hundreds of people in the world! Even if you do get her to love you, do you honestly think you'll understand how she feels? How **anyone** feels?_

"Excuse me," he said, dropping back down to all fours and running back to the West Wing. At least, he thought he said something. What little social norms he remembered were probably hopelessly outdated, and although his lexicon was increasing every day, he still struggled to find the right words for what he wanted to say. Maybe this chance he had been given, to find love, was doomed to failure.

Maybe he had just been a Beast for too long to ever understand people again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had essays and exams, and just - everything, really. But now the semester is over! And I can devote more time to ART! Huzzah!! *confetti*
> 
> Just the usual things you get from a rom-com: playful banter, cute montages, the existentialist dread of wondering whether you can ever truly understand another person. Y'know. Standard rom-com stuff. But my poor dear Beast has sustained emotional baggage from being, well, a Beast for ten years, and not everything can be sunshine and roses and rainbow cakes. Also, Belle's "Acting!" comment is based off of Paige O'Hara's comment to the director of BatB while filming the transformation scene. :D
> 
> Deleted quotes include:
> 
> Beast: "Can I understand Belle? Am I human? Or am I dancer?"
> 
> Belle: Every risqué joke in Shakespeare, done with waggling eyebrows and the phrase "wink wink, nudge nudge" after every punchline.
> 
> Until next time, which will (hopefully) be soon,
> 
> TheTeaIsAddictive


	16. Chapter Fifteen - Misunderstandings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Belle gets halfway to the West Wing.

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Misunderstandings**

Belle could only stand and stare after the Beast as he rushed back into the castle like something was chasing after him. _What was that about?_ One minute they were standing there chatting; Belle had worried she'd gone too far with the teasing, but he'd seemed comfortable enough. Next thing she knew, they'd stopped laughing and he'd run off. The wind blew a little harder, and she pulled her cloak a little closer, tucking her hair behind her ears as she went back into the stable. Phillipe lifted his head to look at her, and Belle flopped down next to him. 

"I don't even know, Phillipe . . ." she sighed. She scratched behind his ears, and the horse nickered in satisfaction. "We were just talking for a few minutes, and not about anything important. I asked him about other guests before me and you, but it seems he's been alone save for the servants for a long time." Belle ran her hands through her hair, wincing at the tugs she found. "I teased him a little bit, but he didn't seem to _mind_ \- he found it funny, even!" 

Phillipe look up at her, with an expression almost human. 

"I don't _know_ why," she said. "I just felt comfortable doing it. It's the sort of thing I used to do with -" Belle cut herself off. "With Gaston, when we were kids," she said quietly. "I guess this means . . . I'm friends with the Beast?" The word felt too sudden for a relationship of two weeks, and Belle rejected it immediately. "No. I don't think we're friends. I mean, we spend a lot of time together, and I know we both like similar things . . ." Gently, she laid her horse's head back on the hay, and dusted herself off. "It's only a temporary stay until you get better, anyway. It doesn't matter how comfortable I am with him. I'm still in his debt for all the help he's given us." She stood up, glancing back at her horse one more time, and made her own way back to the castle. 

The kitchen was fairly quiet, and Belle arranged a small lunch for herself without much hassle. She ate at a table out the way of any working servants, as usual, and left her dishes as she went up to her room to change her dress. It had taken some fighting with the wardrobe, but Belle's stubbornness had eventually won out; she would wear her old blue dress to tend to Phillipe, to avoid any stains on the finer dresses she wore after lunch. Today the wardrobe had picked out a simple dress in a dove-grey colour, but Belle, still lost in thought, didn't say a word as the servants helped her into it. A hesitant tap on her knuckles brought her back to attention, as the hairbrush, wardrobe, and teapot looked at her with concern. 

"Oh, I'm sorry," Belle said, annoyed that she'd forgotten her manners. "It's a lovely dress - they're all lovely dresses - I was just thinking."

The teapot tilted itself to the side, as if to ask what she was thinking about. Belle told them what had just happened outside, missing a glance between the wardrobe and the teapot when she mentioned that the Beast had suddenly run back inside. When she had finished, the teapot directed the hairbrush out the room, and hopped out quickly. Puzzled, Belle stood up, ready to follow the servants. The wardrobe energetically gestured back to the bed, and Belle sat back down, moving so that she faced the door. In less than five minutes, the teapot was back on the serving tray as steam billowed out its spout, a small teacup beside it. As it poured a cup of tea out for Belle, the hairbrush returned with the candelabra and mantel clock, before bowing out the room and (somehow) shutting the door. The little teacup hopped over to the edge of the serving tray, perilously full.

"Careful!" Belle said, filled with sudden images of the cup broken on the floor, the teapot distressed above it. She laid out her hand, and the cup leapt onto it. The tea spilled over the edges slightly, but it only caused Belle to wince slightly. She'd seen worse injuries on her father than a little scald on his palm. Meanwhile, the two other servants had made their way to the top of the serving tray, and were sat on either side of the teapot, looking for all the world like a trifecta of judges. Belle couldn't help the little butterflies in the her stomach, even though she knew she'd done nothing wrong - or anything at all, really. She took a small sip from the cup, feeling the warmth of the tea go down her throat. A small chip in the rim made her realise it was the same cup she'd met on her first night in the castle. For some reason it made her feel a little better. The teapot nodded at Belle encouragingly, and she repeated her story for the candelabra and clock. Once she was done, they huddled together, evidently communicating (somehow).

Belle fidgeted around a little, before she noticed that the little teacup was trying to get her attention. Carefully, she brought it up closer to her face, so she could see what it wanted more clearly. It jerked up slightly, then settled back into its normal stance. Suddenly, bubbles began appearing on the surface of the tea still left in the cup, as if somebody was blowing into the liquid at a great speed. Belle giggled at the cup's antics. It seemed like something a little child would do, and it had worked in distracting her from the other servants. A crack from the serving tray caused both Belle and the cup to jump, Belle's hand forming a protective shield just in time to stop it falling to the floor. The teapot was angled slightly towards the cup. It hung its 'head', but still gave Belle's fingers a playful nudge before it rejoined the other servants on the tea tray.

A short rap at the door produced a dictionary that the hairbrush had (somehow) carried to Belle's room, which it then laid on the bed. The candelabra and clock hopped over beside it, and started flicking through. Belle peered over their shoulders, wondering what they were looking for. The clock stuck its arm in the odd page or two, until with a flourish the candelabra stood in front of Belle. It gestured to the dictionary, and the clock opened to one of the pages. 

"To do," Belle read. It flicked to another page. "Master." Another. "To be." One more page. "Angry?" She frowned. "I'm sorry, but I'm not sure what you're asking me." The clock repeated the sequence of pages, but Belle still had no idea what it was trying to say. "Do the Master - oh!" _Did the Master seem angry?_ "I don't think so?"

The candelabra waived its hand in a circular motion, as if to encourage Belle to go on. 

"I mean, he didn't roar, or throw anything, if that's what you mean. It's just like I said; one minute we were fine, the next he ran off."

The servants shared a helpless glance. 

"Does he do this often?" Belle asked. The clock busily flipped through the pages, and Belle mumbled the words as it pointed to them. 

"Yes. Ever. Since. Cu-" Before she could finish reading the last word, the candelabra shooed the clock away from the book, flames appearing on its hands. The clock gesticulated back, wide movements causing its metal arms to glint in the candlelight. They approached, nose to nose, and the flames grew higher. 

"Woah!" Belle exclaimed, suddenly grabbing the both to separate them. "If this is about the enchantment, I kind of already guessed that." The clock at least had the grace to look sheepish. "Just - please don't burn down my bed." the candelabra's lights went out, and the fight seemed to be over. "So this happens often," she said softly. "How long does he stay like this?"

Instead of going for the book, the clock's minute and second hands wound around its face quickly. 

"I see," Belle said. Decisively, she stood up and walked towards the door. A rapping on the serving tray made her look at the teapot and cup. "I'm going to see him. He mentioned that people don't come here often. He probably just needs someone to talk to." She didn't need a dictionary to interpret that all the servants were giving her an emphatic No. Belle ignored them, sweeping out the door and making her way to where she thought the Beast's quarters were. 

She walked quickly down the corridor her room was in, and found the main hallway of the castle; the one she had first entered when she came to the castle. Belle paused for a moment. She glanced at either side of the wide entrance, trying to figure out where the Beast's quarters could be. After a moment, she shrugged minutely, and walked to the right-hand side, keeping up a swift pace all the while. _It's the right thing to do,_ she thought. _I know **I** would have appreciated it when things in the village went downhill; to just have somebody to talk to, or listen to me. I had Madame Hoen for that,_ Belle thought as she continued down the right-hand corridor. _He has nobody._

Despite the fact that the entirety of the castle looked very similar, Belle thought she recognised the layout of this area. The wallpaper seemed familiar, as well as the corridor layout. As she kept walking, she remembered; the first day in the castle, when she'd gotten lost and been shooed away by the feather-dusters. _At least I'm on the right track,_ she thought. Eventually, she reached the archway where the servants had been congregated. The corridor stretched further out, ending in an imposing pair of double doors. For the first time, Belle paused. Once she reached those doors, there would be no turning back. She took a deep breath, and kept walking. 

The general air of the corridor seemed to be one of disrepair. While there were still tables and knick knacks at regular intervals, like the rest of the castle, these seemed to be a lot dustier. In fact, Belle wasn't sure if the servants had cleaned up here at all. She brushed her finger along the edge of a table, and came away covered in dust a great deal thicker than any other dust she'd seen in the castle. She was almost halfway to the double doors, when Belle felt a tickling in her nose. Suddenly, and very loudly, she sneezed, the result of all the dust. The sound seemed to echo in the corridor, lingering like smoke in the air. From the other end, a noise like a grunt came over.

Belle froze. After a moment, she carefully took a step back. While she had been filled with confidence a minute before, there was something about the tattered state of the corridor that unnerved her. Without even realising it, she had been holding her breath. Slowly, she let the air out. As she did so, Belle heard a low, animalistic moan. She rushed forwards a little, knowing that it was the Beast. She was almost at the door when it suddenly increased in volume, becoming a loud roar. Belle didn't move a muscle, one hand still outstretched towards the door handle, as the Beast's cry continued. A moment later, it was a low whimper once more. 

Belle let her hand fall to her side. She carefully made her way back to the entrance hallway, just as quietly as she had arrived. The clock, candelabra and teapot came hopping down the other staircase at the same time, and the two met in the middle. The clock shrugged its arms slightly, holding them out wide as if asking a question. 

Belle shook her head in response. She couldn't seem to find her voice. She walked past the three of them, heading back upstairs. They didn't follow her, and when Belle glanced back she saw them deep in conversation. As soon as she turned the corner into a corridor, it was like something broke within her. Belle ran to the library, the one place in the castle where she knew she would be completely alone. She shut the door behind her firmly, slightly out of breath from her sprint, and leaned against it. 

"It was the wrong timing," she whispered to the empty room. "I'll try again later." She walked over to their usual couch, and settled down with two books - Much Ado About Nothing, and another one she'd picked up from the library shelves, which she would read while waiting for the Beast to arrive for their daily sessions. Belle tucked her feet up on the couch and settled down, hoping he would come and see her. 

She only realised he wasn't going to come when she finished the book, the afternoon sun finally beginning to dim into evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I was going with a goofier tone, the chapter title would have been 'The West Wing, Part One'.
> 
> Deleted fragments include: 
> 
> Meanwhile, the two other servants had made their way to the top of the serving tray, and were sat on either side of the teapot, looking for all the world like Sir Alan, Nick, and Karen.
> 
> See you next time!


	17. Chapter Sixteen - Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which apologies are made, and the Enchantress takes some drastic measures.

**Chapter Sixteen**

**Best Laid Plans**

Belle had expected to wait several days without seeing the Beast, like when she first arrived at the castle. She'd resigned herself to it before going to bed that night; the fact that however much she'd like to figure whatever had offended or hurt him, she wouldn't see the Beast again for some time. So Belle was slightly surprised when the next day, she saw him wandering the grounds, as usual. She waved at him, a little hesitantly. _I hope this doesn't frighten him off,_ she thought; to her relief, it didn't. After a moment's pause, the Beast nodded his head in acknowledgement, before continuing on his walk around the garden. Belle could feel a smile creeping over her face as she leaned back against the stable wall, letting the cold air settle into her skin. _Whatever it was that bothered him, it worked itself out,_ she thought. _I guess I'll see him today in the library._

She was only mildly surprised when he didn't show up. She could tell he was avoiding her because of that awkward encounter; what she couldn't tell was _why_ he was doing so. After half an hour of waiting with the book open, Belle eventually gave up on Much Ado, and looked around for another book in the library to start reading. The same thing happened the following day; Belle saw the Beast in the grounds, they exchanged a greeting, and that was all. She was perched on the window seat of the library, watching the sullen, grey sky, when she heard a scuffling sound coming from the library doors. 

Belle turned her head towards the noise immediately, her body following almost as an afterthought. She stood up, her skirts falling into place with a soft shuffle, and in a few quick steps was at the door. She could hear heavy, regular breathing, that suddenly stopped. A moment later, Belle made out the almost inaudible sound of an object settling against the wooden panel of the door. Just as suddenly as Belle had heard the noise, the scuffling started up again, and she heard the unmistakeable sounds of the Beast padding away from the doors. She stepped away, moving back to the window seat. 

"Maybe he's just shy?" she asked the room. 

The room, rather sensibly, didn't answer back. It didn't matter to Belle, however; she was already thinking about a way to stop the awkward dance of manners that had restarted between herself and the Beast. It didn't take her long to come up with a solution that was quick, simple, and to the point. 

The next day, after their usual silent greeting in the grounds, Belle stayed much longer with Phillipe than she had over the las few days. With some help from the servants, she brushed and washed her horse until his coat shone, as well as checking up on his injury. Really, the servants just provided Belle with the tools for cleaning Phillipe, as taking care of him had been her responsibility after her mother had died. By the time she was done, Belle would normally already be in the library. _Not today,_ she thought. _I have a conversation to revive._ Changing at her normal speed into a green dress, and walking at her normal pace to the library, Belle couldn't help feeling agitated. _What if it didn't work?_ The corridor felt almost agonisingly long, and there was nothing Belle wanted to do more than race to the door. If she did that, however, Belle knew that the Beast would be instantly alerted to her presence. 

When she finally turned the corner, Belle saw that her plan had worked. The Beast stood at the door, his arm raised up as if he was about to knock on the door. 

"Hello," Belle said cheerily. 

The look of surprise and mild terror on the Beast's face, combined with a turn so swift it caused his cape to flutter out behind him, was almost enough for Belle to burst out laughing and ruin her plan entirely. Luckily, she managed to control her face to show just a smile. Hopefully one that didn't tremble too much. 

"You're late - I mean, uh, hello," he stammered. His ears relaxed against his head, and Belle walked over until she was beside him, one hand on the door handle. 

"Shall we go in?" she asked smoothly. Without waiting for an answer, and hoping that this would work, Belle opened the door and walked over the sofa. It was only when she had sat down and was looking for the Beast that she realised he hadn't followed her over. Instead, he hovered awkwardly by the door. _Well done, Belle,_ she thought. _You're a **great** guest, making him feel uncomfortable in his own home._

"I wanted to apologise for missing these meetings," the Beast said. 

"Um, thank you," Belle said, "but there's nothing that needs an apology. If anything, I should say sorry for making you uncomfortable the other day, in the garden." Belle knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words left her mouth. The Beast ducked his head, drawing his cloak closer. He half-turned, as if to go.

"Beast, wait!" Belle cried out, reaching her hand out. To her surprise, he did. She gathered her thoughts for a second, trying to find the words that would keep him in the room with her, and not send him away. "We don't have to talk about it if you'd rather not. I just didn't want to let this hang between us."

"You did nothing wrong," he rumbled. "It's only my embarrassment that's caused this."

"Embarrassment?" Belle echoed. "I thought you were . . ." She couldn't think of the right adjective to finish her sentence, and she let it hang in the air. 

"Angry?" the Beast completed.

Belle shook her head. "It doesn't matter. Would you like to join me for Much Ado About Nothing? We're almost at the end."

"What did I miss?" he asked as he made his was over to the sofa. 

"Nothing," Belle said. "I was waiting for you to come back before I went on. I've been reading other books in the meantime." For a moment, Belle thought she saw a flicker of something in his eyes, but it was gone a second later. 

"What were we up to?" the Beast asked. 

"Dogberry and Verges at the trial," Belle said. "Give me a minute to remember my Dogberry voice." She heard him snort in laughter, and inwardly she felt something lighten. "Alright," she said. "Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust things; and to conclude, they are lying knaves."

"What?" the Beast asked. 

"Hang on a minute and it'll be explained in order," Belle smiled. 

Once they got back into the rhythm of the play, Belle found that she couldn't bring herself to stop at their usual time, but instead kept speaking until she reached the final lines. If she had been able to tear her eyes away from the words on the page, she would have noticed the Beast looking at her for a scene or two. As the play wore to an end, however, he had stopped looking at Belle and instead was staring into space, his eyes unfocused. When Belle shut the book, he seemed to come back into himself with a start. 

"That's it?" he asked. 

"Uh-huh," Belle said. 

"But they didn't say what they were going to do to Don John," he said. "That's something strange to just leave hanging."

"That's what Shakespeare does a lot," Belle said. "More so in the tragedies - he doesn't like leaving things in a vacuum, but instead ushers in the next line of kings or ruling power."

"I thought you said the bookshop only had comedies?" the Beast said. 

"It does - I own a few books, as well." Belle smiled, thinking about them. "The tragedies I've read are mostly Shakespeare: Hamlet, Othello and Macbeth."

"Were they good?" he asked. 

"Yes," Belle said. "Very sad, but good. And now they're collecting dust." She had muttered her last sentence so quietly the Beast wasn't sure if he was meant to hear it. 

"You'll be back with your books soon. Once your horse is healthy again." The Beast tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach as he said the words.

"Just as long as I can avoid Gaston," Belle said. 

"Who's Gaston?"

Belle took a moment to answer. "A friend from my childhood. We don't get on nowadays - I don't really want to talk about it, if that's alright." The Beast nodded silently, and turned his head to gaze at the steadily burning log fire that heated the room. Belle put the book back on the table, and settled down at the other end of the sofa. As they sat together, sharing the same space in a comfortable silence, she came to a decision.

Without looking down at her hand, Belle worked her wedding ring off her left finger and tucked it in her sleeve.

***

While the Beauty and her Beast sat watching the fire, the Enchantress was breaking a sweat. 

Their budding friendship was already giving her some power - power she would normally spend observing them to make sure nothing untoward was happening. However, this was not a normal time, and she found herself wishing for the thousandth time that she had been a little more careful when encouraging the suitor to follow his Beauty. Because now, instead of watching them fall in love, she was spending every iota of energy she received keeping Gaston lost in the woods. 

It was a difficult task, made more so by the fact that the man had spent most of his life in these parts. She had tried changing animal tracks, his perception of time, even his willpower, but to no avail. The man just kept on walking. It would have been enough for her to give up in despair, if it hadn't meant the end of her magic supply for the foreseeable future. So she concentrated as hard as she could. 

_Come on, you stubborn pig,_ she whispered. _Just stop walking for fifteen minutes! That's all I need!_ The Enchantress had muttered similar phrases over the last three days to no avail, so she was astonished when the hunter obeyed her this time. He looked around the trees beside him, then up at the sky. Sunset was beginning to spread its dyes around. Gaston dropped his pack to the ground, and while he kept walking, it was clear that he had decided to make camp for the night. 

The Enchantress finally felt able to relax. She watched carefully as he built up a small fire, and cooked some small game he had caught over the last few days while he searched for his wife. She kept watching Gaston as the night drew in, and he made finishing preparations for his camp. By the time he was finally sleeping, the moon was high in the sky. 

The Enchantress smiled. With a flick of her fingers, she sent a small gust of wind to extinguish the fire. Darkness now abounded over the sleeping hunter. Carefully and deliberately, the roots of surrounding trees emerged from the ground. They slithered over to Gaston, before looping over his body. The thinner ends of the trees bound his wrists and ankles to the ground, while the larger roots started pinning his legs together, and his arms to his body. Once the hunter was completed enveloped, save for his head, the dislodged earth from the risen roots piled up over Gaston's body. Simultaneously, blades of grass plaited themselves into a covering for Gaston's face, shielding him from the outside. With a final crook of the Enchantress' pinkie, thick clumps of wild rose bushes, dense with thorns, flew up around the clearing where Gaston had thought to lay his head. 

Exhausted, the Enchantress let the hunter's image fade away. She had used up all her magic in the spell - until the Beast and Belle met again, she was only able to disguise herself. The Enchantress sighed. She would have like to check up on her lovebirds - and the girl's father, still locked away in the asylum. _The hunter is frozen in time, bound by trees and encased by thorns,_ she muttered. _That had better keep him busy long enough for them to fall in love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate Chapter Title: Everybody Forgets About Maurice
> 
> Sorry for the long wait, since I am on holiday, but whatcha gonna do? This was fiddly anyway; characters not wanting to do the things they needed to (hint: Belle) and then changing the planned plot point completely (hint: Belle again). 
> 
> Also, Shakespeare belongs to Shakespeare, not me.
> 
> Until next time.


	18. Chapter Seventeen - Learn To Do It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, after a long brainstorming session, the Beast figures out another way to bond with Belle.

**Chapter Seventeen**

**Learn To Do It**

Despite a few bumps in the road, the Beast was feeling cautiously positive about his relationship with Belle. It wasn't just that she seemed to genuinely enjoy his company, and made him laugh all the time, and was possibly the key to breaking the curse. Well, if he was honest with himself, that last one was a pretty big reason why. But she was also nothing like he had expected a peasant to be - like he had even expected a woman to be. Given the curse, the Beast mused, those were both obvious - he hadn't exactly been able to meet many people over the last five years. Belle was more than just a new face in the castle, though. She told jokes, she cared for her horse, and she was deeply, fiercely intelligent - probably more than the Beast, even with eleven years of learning to be a prince behind him. He couldn't help feeling that while Belle didn't see him as a demon, she didn't exactly view him as an intellectual equal either, given his struggles with reading. He desperately wanted to fix that - to find a place where they could engage as equals, or at least stumble through learning something together. 

The only problem was, he had absolutely no idea what that place might be.

So after a few whispers and pleading looks at the clock and candelabra, the three of them were spread out across a still-intact table in the West Wing, a sheet of paper and a pencil laid out as well. Belle had told him earlier about how they had talked to her a little using a dictionary; the Beast supposed this was simply the next logical step. In a way, it wasn't unlike how he had relearned to speak. Unfortunately for the servants, only a few of them could use the pencil and paper; this included the clock and candelabra, since both of them had 'limbs' of a sort. The three of them had been sitting there for the past twenty minutes, and already half of the sheet of paper was covered in words and phrases crossed out or underlined. 

"Alright," the Beast sighed. "So ice-skating is ruled out. That makes . . . how many ideas rejected?"

The clock moved its hands to eleven o'clock.

"This is hopeless," he muttered. "If only I could remember what I used to do . . ." He raised his head suddenly, his ears perking up. "Do either of you remember?"

After a glance at the clock, the candelabra picked up the pencil. "We've already ruled most of them out, Master."

"There must be _something_ ," he said. "We just need to think." The room fell into silence again, broken only by the Beast's breathing and the ticking of the clock. 

"What about -" the Beast started, but broke himself off halfway through. "No, we've already thought of that." He could feel his tail swishing beneath the table as his frustration mounted. _It really shouldn't be this difficult to think of something I'm at least passable at, besides hunting._

A flicker of light in the corner of his eye caught the Beast's attention, and he turned to see the candelabra hurriedly scribbling, all three flames dancing wildly. The clock hurried over, pushing the candelabra away from the flimsy sheet of paper, and carefully completed the word. The candelabra shot the other servant a dirty look, but the Beast was too interested in whatever fresh idea they had thought up. He carefully picked up the paper.

"'Play piano'?" he read. The clock reached up for the paper, and the Beast handed it back down. It immediately started writing again, and he peered over its shoulder to see what it was writing.

"You used to play, when you were younger. If Belle has no experience, you can teach her. If she has a little, you can both learn together. We still have a working piano in the music room, on the second floor of the north wing."

"That's . . . that's _brilliant_ ," the Beast whispered. 

"Lumière's idea," the clock wrote. The Beast looked up, surprised. It was the first time he had heard names assigned to the servants since before he lost his memory. The light, almost giddy feeling caused by the candelabra's - by _Lumière's_ suggestion ceased immediately. _Just another way you lost yourself,_ he thought. _You thought you'd come so far, speaking and reading a little, but you still can't remember their names!_

"Lumière," he rumbled. The servant nodded. "And you?" he asked, looking at the clock. "What's your name?"

The clock lifted the pencil and wrote, "Cogsworth". 

"Well . . . thank you," the Beast said slowly. "Belle said she knew how to play a little. I think this might be an idea that'll work." If the servants noticed that their master seemed much lower in spirits than he had half a second earlier, they were wise enough not to mention it. They turned to leave, hopping towards the edge of the table. 

"Wait." The two servants turned back towards the Beast, who was still sitting at the table. "The teapot. Is her name . . . Mrs. Potts?"

Cogsworth nodded. 

"And the chef's name is Henri?"

He nodded again.

"Could you apologise for me?" the Beast asked. "Those two names just popped into my head after hearing yours. The others might come in time." The two servants bowed - or perhaps Lumière just nodded - and left the room. The Beast stayed hung over the table for a moment, heavy with all that had been lost and all that remained to be found. Presently he shook his head quickly, as if to remove some water, and stood up.

"I suppose I should go and look out some music," he muttered aloud. "Let's hope I remember how to play."

\---

It took the Beast a few days to set his plan in motion. First, he needed to find the music room and make sure that it wasn't too dusty for him and Belle to use. With the re-awakening of his desire to be human, the Beast had found that the many rooms in the castle that were still un-dusted caused his animalistic nose to sneeze uncontrollably. So after he found the room, he asked Lumière to send in the maids to clean and dust it - especially the piano by the window. Meanwhile, every morning that Belle spent with Phillipe, he spent in the library trying to find his old music books. The Beast really had no idea where to look, but he didn't want to busy the other servants. So after a few mornings, he eventually found them tucked away on the bottom shelf nearest the door. He gently flicked through them, handling them as gingerly as possible given his claws. When he found a piece he thought might be suitable for Belle, given that she had a little experience playing, the resulting grin (had anybody been around to see it) was dazzling. The music room was still being cleaned, but the Beast didn't mind too much; after all, he could still read with Belle. Now that they had finished Much Ado About Nothing, Belle was thinking about starting another play.

"What about a book?" the Beast asked two days after his conversation with Lumière and Cogsworth, surprising both him and Belle. "Not that I didn't like the play - it was very entertaining, and your voices were excellent." She smiled a little at his praise, and the Beast felt something warm open up in him. "It's just . . ." And there it was again, that infuriating tendency of his to lose words when they were most important. "You're very good, but it didn't feel . . . complete?" 

"I think I understand," Belle said. "And you're right, too. Plays aren't made for one person to read aloud, they're made for professional actors to perform. I've never seen a play done like that before, just farces on holidays." 

At her words, he felt a flash of a half-memory, of sitting on a throne, men in wigs like the nobility and boys with rouge on their cheeks, making everybody in the audience laugh - including him. It was gone before he could make anything more of it, but even with that vague impression the Beast was reminded of numerous other occasions, each a dimmer echo than the first. _I suppose I must have seen a play or two performed,_ he thought. _Although I suspect that the farces **I** viewed had some more elaborate stagings than the ones Belle saw._ The entire thought, memory included, had spanned about half a second.

"Would a book suit, then?" he asked. 

"Of course," she said. "I'm using this library at your discretion, after all. Do you know any books you'd like?"

"No," he said truthfully. He almost burst out laughing at the barely-concealed look of disbelief on her face. "I don't remember what I read. But I trust your judgement. Maybe something with some sword fighting. And by a Frenchman, this time." He smiled wide, intending to tease her gently. But instead of barely concealed disbelief, there was a minuscule flash of fear in her eyes, before Belle relaxed. The Beast tried not to let his disappointment show too much, as Belle left to look for a book. He kept forgetting that his teeth weren't just teeth, but weapons as well. 

"Alright," Belle said, her dress swishing around her feet as she walked back over to the Beast, "I think I found one. It's called The Three Musketeers, by Alexandre Dumas."

"Have you read it before?" he asked. 

"Some of it," Belle said. "A long time ago." Part of her seemed to close off from the conversation as she uttered the words, going somewhere the Beast couldn't follow. He watched her, her brown eyes seeing something other than the rich grey fabric in front of her fingers. He wondered if her memories were happy, like most of his seemed to be. 

A distant clock chime sounded, and Belle woke up from whatever reverie she had been in. "Oh - I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stop talking. I just got lost in thought." 

"If you don't want to read the book, you don't have to," the Beast said quietly. 

"No, no, I want to," Belle said. He might not be able to read all her moods, but the Beast was certain that Belle was telling the truth there. "Tomorrow?" she asked. 

"Actually, I wanted to try something different tomorrow," the Beast said, seizing the opportunity as it arose. "You mentioned that you used to play piano. We have one here; if you like, I could help you recall your lessons?" He could fell his teeth nibbling on the inside of his lip as his heart beat faster. _Please, say yes._

"Oh, that's very kind of you -" Belle started. She met his gaze for the first time since she brought the book back, and suddenly stopped mid-sentence. He wasn't sure what kind of face he was making, but it was evidently one that surprised her. From this close, he could see her fingers twisting in the lace of her cuff if he concentrated on his peripheral vision. "Yes," she said. "I'd be happy to learn from you." He sensed rather than saw Belle shift her hand closer, so that half her fingers were on the sofa cushion, and half were still on her skirt. If he moved his paw slightly, she would be able to run her fingertips against the hard nail of his claws. 

The clock chimed again, and whatever moment they had shared vanished like a soap bubble popping in mid-air. 

"I have to warn you though," Belle smiled, "I wasn't very gifted." She straightened up, shifting her hand back to her lap as she did so. 

"You don't have to be gifted to put effort into something," the Beast said. "You just need to try."

\---

They met outside the library as usual the next day, and walked towards the music room at a swift pace. Belle's dress wasn't a colour the Beast could safely identify today; it looked like a dull mustard, but that could mean green or red as well as yellow. He liked it when he could tell what colour she was wearing; conversely, it was an amusing game to try and figure out what dress she was wearing by the look of the cut and fabric. They walked in a comfortable silence to the music room, where the Beast gestured to Belle to open the door. 

He hadn't been in the library since before the curse, but he at least had a general impression of it. The music room was a complete blank - he didn't even remember taking lessons, so he just had to hope that some instinct would take over when he and Belle eventually sat down at the piano. The room itself looked well enough, considering the wear and tear it must have withstood. It was smaller and cosier than the grand spaces of the library, but with plenty of windows on three sides. Some instruments remained on display, but these appeared to be more for looking than using. The piano by the south-facing window was the only thing in the room that looked like it could be played safely. The two of them sat down on the bench before it carefully, and the Beast prepared himself. 

"What do you remember learning as a child?" he asked as a start.

"Honestly, not much," Belle said. 

"Can you read music?"

"No."

"Do you know note names?"

"Yes - I know where middle C is," Belle said, pressing one finger onto a white key. The note reverberated around the room. "And up from there is D, E, F . . ." She played the scale slowly, and slightly clumsily. " . . . B, C." 

"That's your right hand," the Beast said. "Do you know anything with your left?"

"No," Belle said. "I did say I only played a little, and this was several years ago by now."

"That's alright," the Beast said, mentally shelving the piece he had picked out for another day. "We can start with basics. Feet flat on the floor, back straight, shoulders back."

Belle did as he said, although she started giggling as well. "I feel like a soldier standing to attention."

"It'll feel more natural over time," he assured her. "Also, lift up your palms. They're too flat. Arch them like you're holding a ball." 

"This is definitely peculiar," she said. 

"Stop complaining," he chuckled. "We haven't even started yet." And even though he was only teaching Belle basics, already he could feel memories of hours upon hours of practice over the years come flooding back to him. "Now, place your right forefinger above C, and the rest of your fingers on the following white notes. Then, the fun begins."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks this chapter goes to CarolNJoy, The Green Archer, and TrudiRose for helping me with basic piano lessons for Belle. While I do play an instrument and can read music, I can't play piano (like, at all) so their insight was extremely welcome. 
> 
> I figured it was about time Cogsworth and Lumière got names again :D It was about as frustrating to write 'the candelabra and the clock' five billion times each chapter as it probably was to read it :) Also, because this is *ambiguous-time-period-France*, we have pre-Revolution aesthetics paired with post-Revolution writers (in the form of Dumas). Just roll with it, guys. If you want historical accuracy, this is not the fan fiction for you.
> 
> Other rejected ideas included: making snow angels, flying kites, rolling down a hill with gleeful abandon, and swimming, btw. And yes, the title _is_ an Anastasia reference. 
> 
> Until next time!


	19. Chapter Eighteen - The Horse and His Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Belle has a chat with the second most important male in her life.

**Chapter Nineteen**

**The Horse and His Girl**

Despite the full night of rest she'd had, Belle woke up the next day still feeling the heavy weight of the emotions she had shared with the Beast outside the West Wing. Never usually one to cry, she had soaked her pillow in tears trying to get to sleep last night, while silently hoping the servants wouldn't notice - or worse, try and talk to her about it in the morning. Luckily, either Belle had been very quiet, or they possessed a valuable touch of discretion, because the wardrobe and her assorted helpers hadn't said a word - or rather, leaned a certain way. As Belle got dressed and headed to breakfast, she realised that it really was strange how quickly she had adopted the thought that these moving inanimate objects were, in a sense, people. Some had names, like Lumière and Cogsworth; they had relationships with each other, like Mrs. Potts and the chipped cup (Belle made a small note to ask for its name the next time she ran into a servants with 'arms'); and they all had distinct personalities.

_I guess when you stay at an enchanted castle with a mysterious master, you just kind of learn to go with the strangeness,_ she thought. _At least they don't think **I'm** strange as well._ But that just reminded her of Gaston, and the village, and everything that she had kept bottled up there - until last night. Belle stood up, leaving her breakfast half-finished on the table. She just needed to get out, to clear her head - breakfast could wait for half an hour. Belle made her way to the stable buildings, tugging at the strings of her cloak as soon as she was out of the cold, and collapsed on a clean pile of hay beside Phillipe. The cart horse lifted his head, nickering softly as Belle screwed her eyes shut.

"If we weren't here, I'd take you out for a ride right now," Belle whispered.

Philip's ears pricked up at the sound of a ride. Smiling a little sadly, Belle reached out to scratch his ears.

"No, Phillipe, boy. You're still too weak to ride."

Phillipe snorted, sending a few stands of hay into Belle's face. She giggled as she brushed them away, only to see the horse beginning to stand up for the first time since his injury.

"Phillipe - Phillipe, no!" Belle leapt up suddenly, reaching for his mane. "You're too weak, still!" But the horse stubbornly ignored Belle, and before she knew it he was standing on all four legs - albeit, a little shakily.

Relief poured over Belle. She hadn't wanted to admit it, but the fear that Phillipe wouldn't make a full recovery had been in the back of her mind ever since that first night at the castle. She stepped closer to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his mane. The smell of horses - specifically, her horse - had always managed to calm Belle down almost as much as a short ride. She patted Phillipe's neck gently, and she smiled as he dropped his head to her shoulder level - almost as if he was hugging her back.

"Hey, boy," Belle said eagerly, "wanna see if you can walk around outside a little?" She walked towards the door, keeping one hand twisted in his mane. "I won't bother you with a bridle today, but I don't think we'll really need it anyway." She pushed the door open with one hand, glancing back every few seconds to make sure Phillipe was still well enough to walk. He seemed eager to get out, however, nosing at Belle's back and shaking his head excitedly. Carefully, she walked out into the grounds, Phillipe following.

_I'm glad now for the lack of snow,_ she thought. _This will be hard enough for Phillipe to recover from - adding ice to the mix is a definite no._

Philip cautiously stepped outside, lifting his head to sniff the fresh air. Belle felt a sudden rush of sympathy for him - he had been cooped up in one area for weeks, not even able to get up and walk around. _I'm going to make sure he gets out more often,_ she promised herself. She walked the horse around the stable to the wider grounds, keeping a firm grip on him. If he stumbled or fell, they wouldn't be so far from the stables that they were helpless.

"There you go, Phillipe," Belle grinned. The horse swished his tail vigourously. "Let's just walk about a little. We don't want to overdo it today."

Even with those limitations, Phillipe seemed determined to enjoy himself. He turned his head several times, as if trying to take everything in. He swished his tail and mane several times, and kept affectionately nudging Belle's shoulder. Once, he managed to push her forwards a few steps, when she wasn't moving fast enough for his liking.

Belle laughed. "I take it you like it here, then?" She scratched behind his ear gently. "I'm sorry I didn't take you out sooner, but I didn't think you'd be able to walk." She dropped a kiss to his neck. "You'll be walking for a while yet, boy-o. Can't have you pushing yourself too hard." Belle felt unease settle over her stomach again at the thought of everything Phillipe had to be able to do, if they were going to get out of the general area with Maurice safely in tow. _He'll have to trot or gallop for a fair amount of time, so I can get to the asylum quickly. And he'll need to be able to take weight, too - maybe even a cart, if Papa can't ride too far. And then when we **do** get out, he'll need to be farm-ready, or we won't be able to use him except as a riding horse. And that's **if** he doesn't fall ill again, since he was sick earlier in the year. And what about shoes? General care? What if his leg never heals enough -_

Belle stumbled at another nudge from her horse, nearly falling flat on her face. Phillipe was looking at her with concern, his ears low on his head.

"Animals are very intelligent, but why are _you_ the only one I've ever met who can read minds?" Belle asked her horse.

Phillipe huffed air out his nose in response, the chilly air turning it to steam like he was a dragon.

"Yes, of course you're the _most_ intelligent," she said. "Don't mind me, I'm just in a funny mood today."

As Belle said the words, they came up to a large fir tree, where the ground was slightly cushioned by the fallen pine needles. Phillipe plonked himself down by the trunk, and Belle settled next to him, running her fingers through his name.

"I was talking about Mama last night, that's why," she explained. "The Beast mentioned . . . forgetting." It was silly, but his words to Belle seemed too personal to share even with her horse - who had been her staunch confessor for almost a decade, now. "I haven't spoken about her in . . . _years_ , I think. Gaston would never have understood."

Phillipe shook his head in agreement.

"And Papa was too heartbroken. I think that conversation we had after he got back from the fair was the first time we talked about her since we moved here."

Belle was absolutely certain about that fact, as it turned out. She remembered the last talk they had about Madeleine very well. She had met Gaston that day, and they had bragged as children did, and then she had gone home with Maurice.

"I made a friend today!" Belle had smiled, a little gap-toothed.

"Really?" Maurice had asked.

"Yes, papa! His name is Gaston, and I told him a scary story so now we have to learn how to fight. Like Blackbeard!"

"What scary story did you tell him?" Her father had chuckled.

"The one Mama told me, about the banshee who screamed and screamed." Belle had said chirpily. When her father didn't reply, Belle had turned around, confused. "Papa?"

"Don't -" His face was grey, his eyes somewhere else. "Don't tell anymore of those stories, will you, Belle?" He had knelt down so their eyes met, and Belle couldn't help the feeling that she was in trouble. "Tell this Gaston any of the happy stories, or fairy stories, or pirate stories you want," he had said seriously. "But don't tell him any of your mother's sad or scary ones. Do you promise? For me?"

"Yes, Papa," Belle had said reluctantly. "For you and Mama." He'd pulled her into a hug then, his whiskers tickling Belle's cheek.

"Just for me, Belle," he'd whispered, so quietly that if Belle's ear hadn't been resting under his chin, she would'nt have caught the words.

To this day, Belle was certain Maurice didn't know she'd heard him.

She shifted, so that her head was resting on Phillipe's shoulder. "It's just . . . so _nice_ to have someone I can finally talk to about things. Not that you're a bad listener, but sometimes a person needs to hear words spoken back." Belle toyed absently with the hem of her blue dress, grateful that the day, while chilly, wasn't particularly blustery. "I've never been able to talk about Mama with anybody. And - maybe this is a bad idea, I don't know - but maybe I could talk to him about Gaston?"

Phillipe snorted.

"He doesn't need to know _everything_ that happened," Belle said, thinking of the silver ring currently tied to the laces of the boots she had worn when she first arrived at the castle. She checked the boots every morning and every night in case they had been disturbed in any way possible, even though she was wearing much finer boots given to her by the castle servants. "I'm still furious with myself that I gave in - that I just -" She scowled, as she always did when thinking of Gaston. "Never mind," she said, forcing herself to calm down. "It would just be nice to talk about our 'friendship', and that pompous display of a proposal that Gaston put on. I mean, who knows - maybe he'll actually have some advice on how to feel better about the whole thing."

As Belle sat with Phillipe, the sun slowly rose, until the early morning sky had fully donned its customary blue colour. If she closed her eyes, Belle could almost make believe she was back at home, sitting with Phillipe under the trees that formed the beginnings of the forest at her house.

She opened them firmly. There was no use in dreaming about the past when the future remained to be thought up. Belle stood back up, keeping a watchful eye on Phillipe, and carefully escorted him back to the stables.

"You did so well today, Phillipe," she said as she was leaving. I'll take you out again tomorrow, how about that?"

Belle could have sworn that the horse was smiling as she left the stables.

_Well,_ she thought. _When you stay at an enchanted castle with a mysterious master, you just kind of learn to go with the strangeness._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!
> 
> Firstly, Sorry for both the long wait and the slightly shorter chapter. The muse for this part of the story has been annoyingly temperamental. idk.
> 
> Fifthly, yes the title _is_ a Narnia reference :)
> 
> So, third order of business: Phillipe is kind of more dog-like than horse-like in some mannerisms (generally the listening gestures). Maybe the castle magic is affecting him? (or just an author with limited horse exp :D)
> 
> Fourthly, and lastly: University starts up soon, but given how slow I've updated this summer, maybe I'll update more frequently in term time? Who knows?
> 
> Secondly : Since I highly doubt I'll update again before September 2nd, here's a premature Happy Birthday to ART! Thanks to all you lovely reviewers (for keeping the candle lit even with weeks between chapters), you lovely followers and favouriters, and to all you lot over there in the back who just read the thing. Thanks so much, to all of you, for taking time out of your day to read this old thing. The author may be dead, but she loves y'all, too.
> 
> And to conclude: stay awesome, read Chapter 16 if you've been confused by this author's note, and PEACE OUT!
> 
> TheTeaIsAddictive


	20. Chapter Nineteen - An Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which books are started, piano is taught, and Belle returns to the West Wing.

**Chapter Eighteen**

**An Understanding**

After a frustratingly tricky first lesson, Belle was thankful that they were back to reading in the library the next day. It wasn't that she didn't like to learn new things; on the contrary, in fact. She didn't like the feeling that she was failing so spectacularly in front of the Beast's careful eyes. Belle knew it was a ridiculous way to feel, especially since the Beast had done nothing to make her feel like a fool. But later that night, when she was almost half-asleep, Belle realised something.

"How I feel about piano must be how he feels about reading," she whispered quietly, so as not to wake the wardrobe and other servants in her room. "Except - I suppose he must have already been able to read properly, so he feels even worse about it." Belle could feel the guilt churning her stomach as she thought about how stupid she'd felt that afternoon - even though the Beast had only watched her technique, and the sole thing he had critiqued was her posture and hand placement. She resolved to try and work at the piano with the Beast no matter how foolish she felt, so that they could engage together on a more levelled playing field. Although the Beast's reading comprehension had improved since they first met, Belle still very much had the upper hand in their library meetings - she didn't blame him for wanting to show that he could do things as well.

As they were in the library the next day, Belle started to read 'The Three Musketeers' aloud. There was a reason she had chosen Dumas in particular. He wrote a lot of snappy dialogue, which Belle found more enjoyable to read aloud than long descriptive passages - no matter how beautiful they were. Belle tried playing around with character voices again as she read - she enjoyed trying to get the Beast to laugh from her delivery of a normal line, before she even got to the humorous ones. Giving Porthos her Dogberry voice worked well for that, but the ridiculous one she gave Richelieu had both of them in fits of giggles after half a sentence.

"Are you seriously going to try and read the whole book like that?" the Beast asked between bursts of laughter.

"I'll give it a go," she grinned. "Might not work once we get to the -"

"Don't tell me!" the Beast interrupted.

" - more serious scenes," Belle amended, hiding a smile. His eagerness to experience the book as openly as possible was encouraging, since it showed he was genuinely enjoying the story - and also gave her a lot of material to gently tease him. After that first awkward moment in the grounds Belle had been more careful about her word choice with the Beast. She still had no idea what had caused him to run off like that, but had resolved to be more careful. Luckily for Belle, the Beast gave as good as he got.

"How are you going to remember your narrator's voice, the separate Musketeers, the Royals, and whoever else appears in this book?" the Beast asked, smiling.

"I have a good memory," Belle said. "But only an average voice," she amended, in the interest of not seeing conceited. "I might have to stop for breaks more often, since there's more to read."

"Would you -" the Beast started. He stopped mid-sentence; Belle could almost see him holding the rest of it in. She waited for him to either finish or continue, as he bit his lip. "Would you mind if I . . . joined in?"

She hadn't expected him to say that. But even if it hadn't been a perfectly polite and reasonable request, the look of hope in his bright blue eyes would have made Belle say yes on the spot.

"Of course," Belle said without missing a beat. "Come here," she said, patting the cushion beside her. "You'll need to be closer, so you can see the page."

The Beast moved over slowly. He perched on Belle's right side, one arm placed behind her for balance. Belle could feel his body heat even though they were by no means pressed together - his loose sleeve brushed against her back as he shifted a little, but that was all. She could hear his breathing as well - maybe a little faster than it usually was, but Belle didn't blame the Beast. This was new for both of them, after all. She felt something tickle her long skirts, and it took her a minute to realise that it was the Beast's tail, involuntarily moving. She turned her head to make sure he was ready, and at the nervous smile that greeted her, Belle faced the book again.

"We were about here," she said, pointing halfway down the page. "Do you want to read D'Artagnan?"

"I don't mind," the Beast said. "My . . . dear Madame . . . Bonacieux?" He looked at Belle, the question evident in his eyes. She nodded encouragingly, and he turned back to the page.

As they read on, stopping every now and again to sound out a word, passing servants would shoot a quick glance through the door, and then hurry past to their work, a spark of hope ignited in each of them. Neither Belle nor the Beast noticed them, too caught up in the unfolding story to pay attention to the outside world.

\----

"I'm _sorry_ ," Belle said for what felt like the fifteenth time that week. "I just can't seem to _get_ it."

"You don't have to keep apologising!" the Beast cried. Even after an hour and a half, he still managed to choke out half a laugh. "There's a learning curve involved in playing piano, you know. You're not going to be perfect after a week."

"But this is so simple! I should at least be able to play a scale without messing it up!" Frustrated, Belle leaned back to fold her arms away, to avoid looking at her offending fingers. A little childish, perhaps, but the whole situation left her feeling as enraged as a toddler not getting its own way.

"Just try again," he said soothingly. Belle did feel a little guilty; despite her promise earlier that week, she still felt ridiculous at the piano. It wasn't as if _he_ had ever acted so childishly when he was reading with her. He had simply waited until he thought he was ready, and given it a go. _You're acting like a fool, Belle,_ she thought.

"Alright," she said after a moment. She unfolded her arms, fixing her posture as she did so, and laid her fingers over the keys once again. "Here it goes." Belle played the pentatonic easily enough. She played it once more, stalling for time.

"Belle," the Beast said softly.

She took a breath. Taking her time, she played the pentatonic again before finally completing the octave.

A smile burst out of Belle's face at her success. Overjoyed, she turned to the Beast. "I did it," she said. "I actually did it!"

"You did," the Beast grinned back, just as excited at Belle's achievement. "Well done." Without warning, he lifted his paw and clapped Belle's shoulder in an expression of congratulation. She could feel the full weight of his paw resting there; the blunt edges of his claws, still powerful despite the attempt to civilise it; the very ends of his fur touching the centimetre of bare skin beside her collar. Before Belle even had time to process the gesture anymore than that, the Beast seemed to realise what he had done, and had whipped his paw away. "Let's see if you can go back down the scale again."

"Down?" Belle asked, choosing to ignore his touch in favour of this new instruction.

"It's exactly the same as going up, just in reverse order," he said. "Give it a go."

Belle turned back to the piano, slightly perturbed. She had no idea why the Beast had reacted to touching her the way he had. She mentally shook it out of her head, however, and focused on the task at hand. Delicately, Belle's fingers went back down the piano, hitting the wrong key in the process.

"Ugh!" Annoyed again, Belle swung her legs up and over the piano stool they were sitting on, walking to the window directly in front of the piano. "I almost had it then," she muttered.

"Patience?" the Beast asked.

Belle stifled a laugh. Even he knew when Belle had had enough for a day and just needed to smile. "How about the patience to wait and try again the day after tomorrow?" she asked.

"Alright," he said agreeably. Pushing the stool back, the Beast stood as well, leaning against the piano. "You should still be proud of yourself, though. You achieved something today."

"I guess," Belle said. She was used to her flaws in technique being pointed out to her face, and unflatteringly compared to the teacher's superior knowledge. Not with her parents, of course, but with . . . _other_ teachers.

"It took me months to learn how to play even a simple tune - believe me, Belle, you're doing no worse than anyone else. And I'm still learning, myself."

Belle's ears pricked up at the Beast's confession. He was so rarely open about his past - she couldn't help that she was a fountain of curiosity when it came to him. "Really? You seem to be teaching me no bother."

The Beast smiled. "Thank you."

"So, how did you learn?" Belle asked. "I can't imagine it would have been easy." She smiled ruefully. Belle secretly suspected that he was much better than her, but was too humble - or shy - to say so outright. Hopefully this subtle way of paying a compliment would be better than outright saying it to his face, and risk him running off again.

However, Belle had thought wrong. The Beast's face fell after her words, like a stone sinking in a pond.

"Excuse me," he muttered, standing upright and leaving the room in a matter of seconds, before Belle could say anything else.

"Wait -" she called to the closing door. But she was too late, and it clicked back in the frame with quiet finality.

"You fool," she whispered. "You complete and utter _fool_." Now that she thought about it, it was only natural that the Beast would have been upset by her comment. She had avoided referring to his form in all the time she knew him. Belle's weak attempt at a compliment had only embarrassed her host, and she had only herself to blame.

"I'm fixing this," she said. "I'm going back."

It took Belle significantly less time to reach the West Wing now that she knew where she was going. She tried not to let the long corridor before the doors intimidate her this time, choosing instead to march straight up to the door where she had lost her nerve beforehand. Belle raised her hand and knocked firmly against the door, before she lost whatever flimsy bravado she already possessed.

She was greeted only with silence. Belle took another breath and knocked again, this time for longer.

Still only silence.

"Hello?" she called tentatively. "Beast?"

There was no answer, but after a moment Belle thought she detected a shift in the quality of the silence. She edged a little closer to the door, and it sounded almost like breathing.

"I just - I wanted to apologise for what I said at the piano. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You don't have to say that," a small voice said from behind the door.

"Yes, I do," she said. "I'm sorry I upset you; I was just trying to pay a compliment. I've been finding piano very difficult - I thought you must have found it simple."

"I - I don't remember." Belle didn't have to see the Beast's face to realise that he was unhappy at the thought. "I find it hard to remember, sometimes."

"Can you tell me why?" Belle asked.

The sudden wave of dizziness that struck her was unexpected. Clutching her head, Belle sank down against the door, leaning against it for support. She gritted her teeth at the high-pitched noise in her ears, but after only a few seconds everything had faded away to nothing.

"I . . . I don't think so." The Beast sounded shaken.

She tried again. "Can you tell me what you _do_ remember?"

"Flashes - impressions. What the castle was like in the past. Games I played when I was younger. How to play piano." He sighed. "I tried not to remember for years, but now I'm terrified that all I'll be able to do is forget."

"I felt the same way when my mother -" Belle stopped. She hadn't talked about this in years. Her father would have been heartbroken had he known everything she felt at the time, despite the fact that he had spoken about it a little in the past few months. Madame Hoen had been an escape from her daily life and cares, with her exciting stories and books. And Gaston wouldn't have understood why she wanted to cry - would have just dismissed it as 'girlish weakness'.

But there was something about the Beast - the second friend she'd ever had in her life - that made Belle want to tell him what she couldn't share with Gaston. He was gentle and patient where Gaston had pushed her to her limits. He tried the things she liked and engaged himself in stories where Gaston had only followed his own interests. He had now twice let Belle see him emotionally hurt, where Gaston had refused to cry at his own father's funeral. And more than all of that - it felt _right_ to tell him about her mother. Like they were _meant_ to show these parts of themselves to each other, that no other person had seen.

"I felt the same way when my mother died," Belle repeated quietly. "I was about eight, at most. I guess I was so hurt that I tried to forget everything about her. I regret that now." She closed her eyes, so her tears wouldn't spill over onto her cheeks. "I hardly remember anything. Sometimes I feel like she died when I was an infant, I can recall so few memories."

"I'm sorry," the Beast said quietly.

"What about your parents?" Belle asked, trying to keep the conversation alive.

"I have no idea," the Beast said. "For all I know, they could have been dead for years, or they could be living happily in Paris."

It took Belle a full minute before she realised that he wasn't going to say anything else. Instead they sat on either side of the door, breathing quietly in tandem, their two lonely, cracked hearts beating one after the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised more updates. Sorry. I don't even have an excuse this time :)
> 
> It's frustrating - I know how I want this to end, and where I want the characters to be before I start writing the ending. It's just getting them there in the middle section that's a massive pain. (oh, woe is me)
> 
> Anyway, in other news, there is now fan art for A Rose's Thorn! It's drawn by the lovely So-crates Johnson of ff.net and you can see it on my tumblr here http://theteaisaddictive.tumblr.com/post/147663293214/a-roses-thorn-fanart 
> 
> Belle sucks at piano only slightly more than I suck at piano, btw : D
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> TheTeaIsAddictive


	21. Chapter Twenty - Piece By Piece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a piece of music is chosen, and a piece of information is divulged.

**Chapter Twenty**

**Piece By Piece**

". . . G, F, E, D, C." Belle pressed lightly on the keys, grinning. It made the Beast happy in return, to see her so proud of her accomplishment. She could now play a C major scaled with no difficulty, and he had started getting Belle to play G and F major scales, now that she had a feeling for how her hands were supposed to move up and down the instrument. She still stumbled over the black keys, and was frustrated whenever she played a wrong note, but she had come on by leaps and bounds since they started.

"Excellent," the Beast said. A little flush of colour bloomed in her cheeks, and she smiled brighter than before. He felt a small jolt in his stomach, and for the first time in a very long while, was thankful that he couldn't blush in this form. He had memories of being scolded or teased when his cheeks burned - he supposed he must have had very light skin, if he turned red as easily as they suggested. He cleared his throat suddenly, the sound strangely loud between them. "Again?" he suggested, managing to turned his eyes back to the piano.

"Of course," Belle said. She adjusted her posture, lifted her hands, and began the scale.

Watching how confidently she played, the Beast began to wonder if perhaps Belle was ready for a piece. The book he had brought on their first lesson was on the window ledge to their left, where it had remained for the past few weeks. _What would be suitable?_ he wondered. _Maybe the Bach? No, too complex at the moment. Something fairly simple, that could get right and left hands moving at the same time, even if only a little bit._

Belle finished the scale again, and the Beast smiled at her appreciatively. "You're doing very well with the scales."

"Thank you," she said. "This is quite possibly the most piano I've ever played in my life." She grinned at him, letting him know that she was making fun again. The Beast chuckled, wondering if now was the right time to bring up his suggestion.

_Why not?_

"Belle," he said, gaining eye contact, "I was wondering something."

"Yes?" she asked.

"You've improved enormously in the time you've been playing, and I was wondering if you maybe wanted to start on a piece?" The Beast hoped that his nervousness hadn't come across as strongly as he felt it. He sensed that Belle had perhaps only started playing piano to humour him. However, over the weeks of frustration and hard work, she seemed to be truly enjoying it as well. He didn't want to impose something on her that she didn't want.

"Oh!" She looked surprised. "Do you think I'm ready for that? I mean, I still fumble over the exercises sometimes - I'm not that good, you know." She twisted her fingers together shyly.

"You'd just get bored playing scales over and over," the Beast said. "I think you could start on a piece and still learn a lot. Besides, there's more to piano than technicality. It's about . . ." He fished around in his mind for the right words, ones that would let Belle understand. "It's about _feeling_ the music, as well. Like when we read - we could just read the words off the page in the same voice for a few hours, but instead we try and feel the emotion of the characters, and use voices. You could play each not perfectly, but it's not the same as feeling where the piece goes and letting your hands take you there, even if you do slip up. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes - I do." Belle had stopped fiddling during his little speech. "Connection over perfection. Don't worry about getting it completely right."

"Especially when you're learning," the Beast smiled.

"You must have had a wise teacher," Belle said.

"Not really," the Beast said. "I seem to remember him shouting a lot - I may have thrown a few sheets of music at him in retaliation."

Belle snorted, although at the time the Beast remembered feeling inescapably furious at the teacher. "So who _did_ teach you about that?" she asked.

"I'm not sure," the Beast said with a false lightness. "But I remember the lesson, and that's the important part."

Belle looked as if she wanted to disagree with him about the moral he had spouted - or possibly felt guilty over bringing up his lack of memory so soon after their heart-to-heart the other night. Before she had a chance to say anything, however, the Beast stood up and manoeuvred his way to the music book on the window ledge. He flicked through it until he found a suitable piece, and placed it open on the stand.

"Clarke," he said. "Minuet in D major. I think you'll like it; it doesn't move a lot in the left hand, and it's still a fairly upbeat tune."

Belle had turned slightly pale as she looked at the sheet music. "You call _that_ not moving a lot?"

"Would you rather some Bach?" he asked.

Belle looked horrorstruck.

"No - no, I was only teasing, Belle," he smiled. She sagged in relief, smiling to herself. "How the tables have turned. The teaser becomes the tease-ee!" He smirked, and Belle raised an eyebrow.

"Shouldn't it be 'the teaser becomes the teased'?" Belle asked, a hint of mischief in her voice.

"Let me have this moment of triumph," the Beast said regally - although the effect was somewhat spoiled when he started laughing.

"You win this round," Belle said, tucking a stray lock of hair back into place. "But I would annihilate you in a snowball fight."

"I'll keep that in mind the next time it snows," he said. "Now, back to business. Let's just work on the first phrase for now."

\---

Despite the improvement Belle had shown in her basic exercises, the Clarke piece was proving to be a new challenge. She often ended the lessons annoyed with herself for not picking it up as quickly as she would have liked. While piano proved to be an enjoyable uphill climb for the both of them, Dumas and the library were easier, but still engaging times for Belle and the Beast to play around with their voices and delivery.

"Belle?"

She looked over to him, her arm still outstretched after delivering Athos' fifth rousing speech that chapter. "Yes?" she asked, settling down a little. Her cheeks flushed - something that seemed to be happening more and more these days, the Beast noticed.

"If you wouldn't mind - could I try reading another character as well as D'Artagnan?"

"Of course," Belle smiled, and the Beast felt a surge of happiness at her enthusiasm. "Who did you have in mind?"

"Porthos," he said eagerly. "He's quite funny - and it doesn't seem fair for you to have to read _everything_ , while I'm only reading one character."

"It _can_ get a little confusing when the Musketeers are all meeting up together," she admitted with a rueful smile. "I'll try and not move about so much, so you can read the page better."

"Isn't that half the fun?" he grinned.

"Not when you can't read the next line, it's not," she smiled. They stayed smiling at each other for another moment, before the Beast carefully reached over with his left paw and loosely held the other side of the book.

"Just in case you decide to run away with it," he said, before turning his attention back to the page.

"I would never," she said. "Besides, it would be far too conspicuous with what I'm wearing. Everybody would spot it a mile away."

"What do you mean?" the Beast asked, turning his attention back to hers. She looked a little sheepish, as if she'd just said something she hadn't meant to.

"The colours," Belle said. "My dress today is green, and the book is red. They stand out."

"Ah - I see now," the Beast said, as if she had explained a tricky piece of Shakespearean language and not brought up a sore point with him. "Shall we?"

Belle looked slightly hesitant, but turned her head back towards the book anyway when she saw that the Beast wasn't going to make a big thing out of her slip. They spent the rest of the afternoon together reading pleasantly. The Beast's highlight was when he first unleashed his Porthos voice - Belle laughed so hard that she almost fell off the couch to the floor. They attempted to get through the rest of the scene, but when Belle changed Athos' voice to Dogberry's they both ended up shaking with laughter.

"We're going to have to do that whole scene again!" Belle wheezed between bursts of laughter.

"That's _if_ we don't start the same thing again next time!" the Beast laughed. His cheeks hurt from smiling so much, but it was a good ache - one he hadn't felt in a long time.

Belle flopped her head back so it rested on the top edge of the couch, next to the Beast's right paw. She closed her eyes, still struggling to control her laughter, and the Beast felt flooded with warmth. _It's nice to be able to make others laugh,_ he thought. If he had been able to, he would have sketched Belle as she appeared in that moment - strands of hair around her face, eyes screwed shut, her mouth still smiling and her cheeks bright pink. Eventually they both managed to stop, and Belle opened her eyes again, staring at the ceiling.

"What colour are your eyes?" the Beast asked. The question had just burst out of him without permission, like there was no filter between his brain and his mouth. He couldn't even pinpoint why he wanted to know - he had a good enough idea that they were some shade of brown.

"Hazel," Belle said. "A mixture of brown and green - mostly brown, to be honest."

"Green," the Beast repeated. "I could see the brown - I just wasn't sure what the other colour was. Green and yellow and red all . . . merge together, for me." It wasn't a question, which was why he was surprised when Belle answered.

"Green is like . . . leaves in the summer, and fresh grass. Not just the colour, but the feeling. I've always thought that raw peas tasted quite green, but Papa never understood me when I said it." She closed her eyes again, turning her head in his direction. "Green is like . . . you know when you can _smell_ spring in the air, even thought it's still February? That's sort of what green is like."

"It sounds like you know it very well." The Beast had always been awful at poetry.

"I spent a lot of time in the forest, when I was younger. I had a . . . I suppose I had a friend who showed me it."

"Is this the same friend you were talking about before?" He didn't want to overstep anything, but if Belle wanted to talk he would happily listen.

She opened her eyes slowly, a deep brown and muddy yellow colour. _Green, like the forest,_ he thought.

"Have you ever seen a kestrel?"

It was a genuine question, the Beast could tell. "Probably," he said. "It's hard to tell from up in the sky, but I've seen some nests."

"The last time we were friends - really friends - he showed me a kestrel. I've never seen one since, but I suppose I avoided the woods after we fell out."

The story came out slowly, in dribs and drabs. It took the Beast a while to understand, since Belle had started at the end instead of the beginning. The middle escaped them both, somehow, but he managed to get a rough portrait of Belle and Gaston's friendship, such as it had been, from the time Belle first arrived in the village to when she broke his nose. He winced a little in sympathy when she brought up that anecdote - he didn't remember when or how, but he had broken his nose at some point while he was still human. The pain was a strong memory.

"So what happened afterwards?" he asked. "You lived in the same village - surely you must have seen him a lot?"

"I avoided him, mostly," Belle said. "I mean . . . it had been three years, by then. We were civil to each other; we nodded in the streets, I said hello if I bumped into him and vice versa; just what I did with any acquaintance. And then he started talking to me again."

"Really?" That surprised the Beast a lot; from Belle's description Gaston had seemed an arrogant child who grew into a calculating man.

"Little things at first - the weather, how my father was doing - but . . . we were friends, once. It wasn't hard to fall back into our routine." She scoffed, shaking her head. "I was so stupid. I honestly believed that after three years, he'd learned the value of friendship - or at least how to be polite."

"What happened?"

"He asked me to marry him," Belle said. "Well. Ambushed me, more like. Papa was away at the fair, competing with a recent invention, and Gaston knew I was home alone. He organised a wedding - right outside my house, too - and then went up to propose."

"With the priest right outside? That's - that's so -" The Beast was lost for words. Luckily, Belle had plenty.

"Rude? Presumptuous? Yeah." She glanced down at her fingers, as she wrung them through each other. "I'm not really proud of what I did next."

"You didn't break his nose again, did you?" the Beast asked anxiously.

"No!" Belle exclaimed, looking up so quickly that the Beast could feel the air swishing around her hair. "I learned my lesson the first time, no thanks to Papa. No, I, uh, may have . . . thrown him out into a mud pile?"

"What?" he said. "You _threw_ him -"

"Into a pile of mud, yes." She was blushing again. "I may have let my temper get the better of me. Again. It's not something I'm proud of - and most of the time I'm level-headed, too. It's just something about him. It gets under my skin."

"What did he say when he proposed?" the Beast asked.

"He asked about my father, first off. And then he made some sort of speech about how we'd always been close - I suppose he must have chosen to forget the last three years, in that case. And then he really got into why he was here - he was twenty-one, he needed a wife, I needed security in my father's old age, we had a good camaraderie, so on and so forth." Belle sighed, a tiny sound that the Beast might not have picked up had they not been next to each other. "He took my hand and got down on one knee. I realised what was happening and backed towards the door. I think he might have tried to take my hand again - he was definitely trying to get me close. And then he said the one thing he definitely shouldn't have."

The Beast stayed silent, knowing that Belle needed to get the words out of her system.

"He said, 'I'll make sure that you and your father are both respectable again, Belle, if you marry me.'" She gritted her teeth. "I just saw red, and threw him out the door."

"I take it that means you refused him," the Beast said, trying to lighten the mood a little. Belle's mouth twisted, in some strange perversion of a smile. Hidden between the folds of her skirt, she ran her thumb around the base of her left ring finger.

"Yes," she said. "I refused."

"Well," the Beast said. "He certainly sounds about as bad as Claudio."

The joke was weak, but it did bring a small smile to Belle's face. Somewhere nearby, a clock struck six o'clock.

"Shall I see you tomorrow?" the Beast asked, beginning to stand up.

"Of course," Belle smiled. "Who knows - maybe over the course of tonight I'll learn how to play piano, and I'll dazzle you with my extraordinary playing!" She laughed and the Beast laughed with her, but her words struck a chord inside him.

"Tomorrow, then," he said. "Good night." He nodded towards her, and swiftly exited the room, the look and sound of Belle's laughter ringing in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Conversations galore! Soul searching included free of charge.
> 
> Special thanks this chapter to the lovely folks at Bittersweet and Strange, as well as TheGreenArcher, who directed me to a list of Level 1 Royal Conservatory Certificate of Music Program piano pieces that fit into the (very loose) historical setting I have. The piece in question is Minuet in D Major, by Jeremiah Clarke - you can find the piece on youtube.
> 
> This chapter, in spelling mistakes:
> 
> Beats by Dr. Disney
> 
> See you in a few :)


	22. Chapter Twenty One - Something There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Beast is made aware of two things that weren't there before.

**Chapter Twenty One**

**Something There**

While Belle still didn't dare to ride her horse, she kept her promise to Phillipe about getting outside more often. Lately in the mornings she would slip on his old bridle and walk with him in the gardens, side by side. She still whispered to him like she always had, but the Beast had replaced Phillipe as Belle's confidant - had done so for weeks, if she was honest with herself. Nevertheless, Belle shied away from telling the Beast everything that worried her - whether that was Gaston's marriage to her, or Phillipe's suitability as a carthorse. The two of them instinctively avoided all mention of where Maurice was, and how Phillipe was progressing. Aside from the odd polite comment from the Beast, he hadn't spoken to Belle about Phillipe since those early days at the castle.

Belle couldn't say she blamed him. She didn't know what was going to happen to their friendship when Phillipe was finally well again. Maurice was a kind, open-hearted man, but Belle knew that bringing him from the horrors of the Maison to a castle inhabited by a beast and several pieces of furniture wouldn't help his mental state. At the same time, going back to the village wasn't an option - not with Gaston still in the picture. And simply leaving the castle altogether was a thought she didn't even want to entertain. Belle was approaching an impasse, but one that she desperately hoped would resolve itself by the time she came to it. She comforted herself with the fact that she still had time to work out a plan. Phillipe was nowhere near ready to ride yet.

Belle walked slowly beside Phillipe, paying no attention to her surroundings when she could lose herself so easily in her thoughts. As such, she got more an a small shock when Phillipe head-butted her in the shoulder.

"Phillipe!" she cried out. "You startled me, boy!"

Phillipe let out an annoyed huff, steam pouring out his nose like a dragon.

"It's nothing, I'm just . . . being silly, worrying," Belle said. "Come on. Let's keep going."

The air still retained a sharp chill that persisted throughout the day, but snow had yet to fall again since Belle had arrived at the castle. The wind blustered across the gardens, and Belle fumbled with her cloak to pull it closer to her body. Still, the freezing air had refreshed her a little, as if it had blown away some dust in her ears that stopped her from seeing the beauty of winter. The next moment, a strong chill set in on Belle's body. _Perhaps the beauty of winter might be better viewed from inside the castle,_ she thought.

"It's getting a bit nippy, old boy," Belle said. "Let's turn back."

Phillipe seemed to be in total agreement, and led the way, looping around the fir tree they sometimes stopped under. As they passed it, Belle saw the Beast padding back towards the castle in a similar direction to them. She had almost forgotten that he liked to take a stroll in the mornings - of course, up until recently she had spent those mornings in the stable with her horse. The Beast looked over his shoulder and, unlike most of their other interactions of a morning, paused. A moment later, he was walking over to them.

"Good morning," he said politely, bowing his head to both Belle and Phillipe.

"Morning," Belle smiled. "Would you like to walk back with us?"

"Of course," he said. They quickly settled in step with each other, although the pace was fairly brisk. "He's doing well, then?"

"Yes," Belle said. "Improving wonderfully. I'm still afraid to push him too hard, though, so for the moment I'm just walking him. I haven't even put on all his tack yet, let alone something of _my_ weight."

The Beast hummed, a noncommittal sound. "I'm glad there was no infection."

"As am I," Belle said quietly. "He's more than just a horse, or a means of transport for me. Phillipe has been part of our family since I was a child."

They spent the rest of the short walk in companionable silence, and all too soon they reached the stable door. Belle hurried in, relieved to be out of the cold, but the Beast remained hovering at the door. She rubbed her fingers to get some feeling back into them, before she started removing Phillipe's bridle. She glanced over at the Beast, only to find that he was already looking at her. He quickly bowed his head, his ears twitching, before he looked back at her.

"I'll - I'll see you in the music room?" he asked.

"Yes," Belle said. "I'll see you then." He left quickly, closing the door behind him. Belle spun back to look at her horse.

"What was _that_ about, Phillipe?" She rubbed her fingers a little more vigorously. "He seemed a little flustered - do you think something's wrong?"

Phillipe snorted and tossed his head.

"What do you mean, I'm an idiot? What am I missing?"

But the horse would say no more. After a few more minutes of exasperated questioning, Belle shook her head and hurried back to the castle, eager to get back to the heat of the fire-lit rooms.

\---

"Why is it that every time I think I'm making progress with this piece, I make yet another mistake?" Belle asked, with a calmness born of endless frustration.

"Because it's a challenging piece," the Beast said in a soothing voice.

"That was a rhetorical question," Belle said, gritting her teeth. "But -" she added quickly, "- thank you for trying to make me feel better."

"Maybe we should take a break," the Beast suggested. "I think you deserve it."

"I would disagree with you, but I'd also like a break," Belle smiled. The Beast smiled back at her. _His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles,_ she thought. _Like a wrinkle of blue fabric that gets caught by the light._

Belle swung her legs around the piano seat with a swish of her skirts, alarmed at the direction of her thoughts. However, if it showed on her face at all the Beast didn't notice. He too stood up, but more leisurely than Belle had. It was a slowness carried out deliberately by the Beast, for fear of Belle noticing anything . . . different about him lately. As she stood at the window, leaning against the piano, he allowed himself the luxury of looking at her. Her fingers drummed absently against her leg - roughened by a lifetime of work, but still slender and elegant. Her dark hair curled slightly against the nape of her neck, where it escaped from her customary ponytail. He knew he ought to stop staring so blatantly - that sooner or later, she would notice him again, like she had in the stables a few days earlier. But there was something about her that made it impossible for the Beast to tear his eyes away.

"Beast, look!" Belle cried, pointing out the window. "It's stopped snowing!"

He walked over to said window, only to see that Belle was, in fact, correct. The snow had started the previous evening, and hadn't stopped all that night, or the morning after. Out of fear for Phillipe, Belle hadn't walked him around this morning. The Beast had felt her absence keenly. It wasn't every day that they walked to the stables together - after all, no matter how much he enjoyed her company, the Beast liked having time on his own to think, or even simply observe the day. However, looking at Belle's face and body language, he was struck with an idea.

"So it has," he said. "Belle - shall we leave the piano for now, and walk about outside? It looks like a nice afternoon, now that it's finally stopped snowing."

She turned back to him, a bright smile on her face. It was the same smile she wore whenever she mastered a note on the piano, whenever he took the initiative in the library, whenever her horse made some little bit of progress.

"Sounds good," she said. "I'll go get my cloak."

Fifteen hurried minutes later, they were strolling along the garden paths, the snow crunching beneath their feet. The Beast had swept a cloak over his shoulders as well, although given his fur coat, shirt and breeches, he definitely didn't need it for warmth. It just felt nice, to bundle up in layers upon layers of clothes and walk in the snow. Belle was in a cloak he'd never seen her wear before - the colour was like the flush that sometimes bled through her cheeks.

"The servants insisted on putting me in this cloak, since I wasn't wearing my clothes from home," Belle half-apologised after a while. "It's very warm."

"Good!" the Beast said. They walked on in silence - a silence more awkward than it had been for several weeks. "It's nice to see the snow again," he said lamely.

"Yes," Belle agreed, seizing on the conversation. "It never really feels like winter without snow, does it?"

"I can't say it does," the Beast agreed. "Although it is a shame that the birds have to leave for warmer climates. I used to get upset about it, when I was small. I think - I think once, I asked my mother if the birds were upset they had never seen the snow." He laughed, and Belle joined in. "She said something about being able to fly and see the world probably made up for the lack of snow."

The memory was true - fleeting, but true. He was a small boy, kneeling on the library windowsill - his mother was beside him, embroidery abandoned on her knee. She had kissed his cheek with the fierceness of love, and her lips had been cold. She had turned away from him to make loud, hacking coughs into her delicate handkerchief, and Mrs. Potts had hurried him away before his mother had stopped coughing. His father had coughed a lot, too.

"She sounds like a wise woman," Belle said. "Although not all the birds are gone. Look." She pointed towards the large fir tree he had seen her sit beneath on occasion. A small group of birds pecked at the ground near the trunk, hunting for some kind of food.

"Kneel down," she said in a low voice. From some hidden depth - probably a large pocket hidden in the cape's lining - Belle produced a large handful of seeds. The Beast knelt obediently, the wet snow already beginning to soak into his trousers. "If you're patient," she said, sprinkling some into his paws, "and very still, more often than not the birds will come to you." She created a small trail of seeds, leading from his paws to just before the tree. "A little incentive for the birds doesn't hurt, either." Belle settled back down beside him, also kneeling on the snow. "They'll come back soon," she said.

"They haven't left," the Beast said. "I can see them in the branches." He gave a small gesture with his head, and Belle followed his line of sight.

"You must have better eyesight than I do," she said after a moment's determined squinting. "I can't see anything."

"There's one on the edge of the branch you could see," the Beast said. He tilted his head downwards a little, towards a fat robin that lingered away from the group of other birds. "He's fairly close to the low boughs," he said in a low voice, so as not to scare it away.

"I - I still don't see it," Belle said, matching his pitch.

Before he could take so much as a second thought, the Beast carefully tipped his seeds into one paw, and took Belle's hand with the other. It looked positively tiny between his fingers - like a doll's hand. The involuntary twitch her fingers made, however, proved that it was no inanimate object he held. He extended her arm slowly in the direction of the robin, as carefully as if she was made of ice. Too hard a grasp, or too strong a pull, and she would melt or shatter.

"Do you see it?" he asked quietly.

"I - I'm not sure," Belle breathed.

"Lean over to the right a little," he said. "I can see it fine from here."

Belle did so, and suddenly they were shoulder to shoulder, her elbow pressed softly against his chest. The Beast could feel his heart racing - and he sincerely hoped that Belle could not. They breathed softly, in unison, Belle's eyes flickering around as she searched for the bird. A hitch in her breath alerted the Beast to the moment she had found it.

"Belle-" the Beast said.

She turned her head up to look him in the eyes. Whatever words he had been planning to say died in his mouth, before they even reached his lips. Instead, he felt something shift within him, creating something entirely different that hadn't been there before. In the moment before either of them spoke, hands overlapping, the Beast felt everything the great authors had described, for the first time in his life.

"Belle," he said again.

"Beast," she whispered. A smile eased its way across her face, as her eyes flickered towards something in her periphery. "Don't move," she said.

"Why not?" he asked.

"The robin from the tree is on your head," she said.

"What?" the Beast asked, thoroughly confused.

"It's - it's just sitting there!" Belle said, in a low voice. She half-laughed, the smile fully lighting up her eyes.

"Really?" The Beast looked up, instinctively trying to see for himself without moving his head. He grinned back at her, trying not to laugh so that the robin would stay where it was. And even though the moment had passed, the rest of the afternoon only confirmed to the Beast that what he had felt in that moment was real.

\---

The Beast was almost asleep when he heard a sharp rap on the door to the West Wing. Stifling a yawn, he slowly padded over to the door, inwardly cursing whoever had woken him up at what had to be nearly midnight. He opened the door slowly, letting in a burst of candle light.

"Hello, Lumière," he sighed. Sure enough, the candelabra hopped in, followed closely by an anxious-looking Cogsworth, and - to the Beast's surprise - Mrs. Potts. He murmured a greeting to the other servants, and then went hunting for a sheet of paper and a pen, so they could talk quickly. By the time he had eventually found all the components, the servants were settled on a low table. However, even the Beast could see the nervous energy in them all.

"What is it?" he asked, too tired to be polite. "Couldn't this wait until the morning?" He yawned again, hastily covering his mouth after a glare from Mrs. Potts.

"Master," Lumière wrote, "we are a little concerned about you and Belle."

"What do you mean?" the Beast asked. "Things are going fine."

"Yes," he continued to write. "Howev-"

Cogsworth promptly yanked the pen away from Lumière, creating a dark line through the last two words.

"We think things are moving very slowly, all things considered."

"What?" the Beast said, taken aback. "What do you mean, slowly?"

Cogsworth put the pen to paper again, only to look up and see both Lumière and Mrs. Potts glaring at him. He nodded aggressively, and started writing.

"Given the time limit, we thought that maybe you would be trying to gain her affections a little more quickly. We understand, of course, that these things take time, but -"

"It's alright," the Beast said. "I have plenty of time until the time is up. You said it yourself, Cogsworth - I still have five years left!"

All three servants froze for an instant, looking at each other in shock. Lumière took control of the pen again, writing so quickly the Beast couldn't even read his handwriting.

"Lumière, slow down!" the Beast said. "I can't understand you when you write that fast!"

The candelabra steadied himself, and started again.

"You don't have five years left."

"What do you mean?" the Beast asked, a note of panic creeping into his voice. "I asked Cogsworth how long I'd been unable to - to reason for, and he pointed to the fifth hour!" He turned desperate eyes onto the clock, who had his face turned away, wringing his metal hands. "I lost myself in summer, and found myself again in winter - that could be five months, easily!"

"Master, you weren't lost for five months," Lumière wrote slowly.

The Beast felt sick. His mind had already jumped ahead to the logical conclusion - the realisation that his birthday, his 21st birthday, was probably only a month and a half away, but Lumière wrote it down anyways.

"You were lost for five years."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the pressure is on!
> 
> I won't promise anything - but I _will_ l say that in about, (watch check) two or three chapters, I will have an exact, very detailed plan of what's gonna happen.
> 
> Over and out,
> 
> TheTeaIsAddictive


	23. Chapter Twenty Two - The Consequences Revisited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which actions have consequences, and the plot marches on.

**Chapter Twenty Two**

**The Consequences Revisited**

"Five years?" the Beast repeated quietly. He looked the three servants straight in their eyes. Cogsworth was full of nervous energy, shifting his eyes and twiddling his hands. Lumiére looked away after a moment, his feelings of guilt at breaking the news clear from the way he dropped the pen. Mrs. Potts only looked at him with pity.

"I'm not . . . sixteen," he said slowly. "I'm almost - I'm almost of age." He hadn't felt like a teenager in the months since he'd regained his consciousness; then again, he didn't feel much like a man of twenty, either. Although his mind had already registered how little time he had, and how old he was, the Beast still couldn't quite digest it. "I'm almost twenty-one," he said, a little calmer and steadier than his last few sentences had been. He took a deep breath that did nothing to soothe the sharp pangs of fear and anxiety in his stomach. "Has it really been ten years?" he said, turning his full attention back to the servants.

Mrs. Potts nodded.

"Doesn't feel like it," he said quietly. "Then again, given _my_ circumstances, I suppose it wouldn't." He managed to force a weak chuckle. "How did _you_ know, though?"

Cogsworth picked up the pen. "We couldn't move, but we were still inhabiting our bodies. I think I've memorised half the titles in the library by now."

He moved in a way that suggested the same bitter laughter the Beast had just used. However, the Beast was horrified. _Five years of standing in the same place, looking at the same things! Five years!_

"Which is why we were asking about your intentions with regards to Belle," Lumière wrote, taking back the pen.

"Right," the Beast said. "She needs to fall in love with me." Even as the words left his mouth, he felt the hopelessness of the situation. He bowed his head, suddenly overwhelmed by the lightning-quick change his circumstances had taken. He cradled his forehead in one paw, while his tail flicked back and forth agitatedly. As if it had never left, the feeling of hopelessness the Beast had embraced before Belle's arrival settled over him. Lost in thought, it took him a moment to realise that somebody was tapping his arm energetically. He looked up, and over to the paper, at Lumière's prompting.

"Is there a problem, sir?" Cogsworth had written.

"I - I don't know if it'll . . ." He trailed off mid-sentence, but it was enough for Cogsworth to droop as much as his wooden body let him.

"What do you mean?" Lumière asked, writing the letters slowly.

"She's just . . ." The Beast swallowed. "Belle isn't just some pretty face who stumbled into me in the woods. She loves her father, and she devours books like nobody else, and she has a whole host of her own problems outside of this castle's. What happened between her and -" The Beast caught himself just before he said Gaston's name. He didn't know how much Belle had told the rest of the castle staff, and he would hate to betray her trust like that.

"I don't want my feelings to make her uncomfortable in any way," he said instead. "If I said anything . . ."

The servants glanced at each other. Not for the first time, the Beast wondered how they communicated without pen and paper, as they used with him. Eventually, Lumière wrote down a single word.

"Feelings?"

The Beast looked between the three servants, suddenly struck by the thought (even in the middle of what was essentially an emergency meeting) that these three people were the closest he had to confidantes - to parents. Amidst the panic, despair and exhaustion in his head was mixed a note of melancholy for the man and woman he could barely remember; the parents he _should_ be talking about this with. And then, like all other emotions he had felt since Cogsworth had broken the news, the melancholy faded to the background, and he had to attempt to parse out what his feelings for Belle were, in a way that would satisfy Lumière's curiosity and Cogsworth's concern.

"I - I don't _think_ it's love?" He held up a paw before Cogsworth could so much as look at the pen, lying on the table. "Let me . . . let me think, for a minute." When he was sure that Cogsworth wasn't going to butt in, the Beast took a breath, and started to talk. "I mean, I love to spend time with her. Belle always has something interesting to say about the books we read. And she's funny, too - she made those words _real_ in a way that they haven't been since - well, since _before_." The Beast sighed. "And - well, of course she's beautiful, that's obvious. But . . ."

He paused again, this time to genuinely try and sort through his thoughts. "Most of the time, it doesn't feel the way it does in books. My - _feelings_ \- whatever they are - they didn't come solely from her features, or her - her figure," he said quickly, once again glad that nobody could see him blush in this form. "She's so . . . she's so capable. She knows how to do things I've never done, but if I asked, I know she'd teach me in a heartbeat." He thought back to her hands; strong and tough when cleaning Phillipe's tack, and even fighting the wolves, what felt like a hundred years ago; but also soft and delicate, playing piano or leafing through a book. "She's fiercely independent, to the point of stubbornness." He smiled a little, thinking of how ardently she had tried to leave no debts with him at her arrival. "She's never made me feel slow, or left behind, even when I couldn't speak properly." The weeks of skirting around each other, meetings in the library, misunderstandings and heart-to-hearts. The feeling of her hand in his, that afternoon. "Belle is . . . simply incredible. And there _was_ a moment, this afternoon. But is that a basis for love? I couldn't feel like that all day, every day. Most of the time, I just feel like wherever Belle is, that's where I want to be. I love spending time with her, I love reading with her, I love laughing with her. Does that mean that I _love_ her?"

He looked up at the servants, hoping they could see why he was so unsure. Instead, all three wore the same look of carefully guarded hope, mixed with slight condescension. And suddenly, he understood.

"Oh," the Beast said. "I didn't realise it felt like that. Nothing we - or I - read . . ."

"It never does," Lumière wrote, "because it is incomparable."

"Oh," he said again, a little stronger. "Well. What now? How do I know if she feels the same way? How do I even _begin_ to go on?"

"Now," Cogsworth wrote, after the pen was handed over, "we make a plan. We all agree that from what we've seen, Belle almost certainly feels for you, too. We just need to create the perfect romantic atmosphere for the two of you, and when the moment is right, you confess your love."

"How are you going to do that?" the Beast asked. "And what do you mean 'almost' certain? What happens if you're wrong, and she _doesn't_ feel anything?"

"1)," Lumière wrote, "Between the three of us, we have fifty year's experience with nobility. We have helped forward more than our fair share of courtships and engagements. You are in safe hands, sir."

"But what about Belle?" he asked again. "What if -"

"That, Master," Lumière cut off with a flourish of ink, "is the thrill of courtship. Every young man feels it."

 _A thrill?_ the Beast thought. _It feels more like crippling, fear-induced nausea to me._

They sat brainstorming over the paper for the next hour and a half, before the Beast eventually fell asleep over the table. During that time, none of the servants said anything regarding their future if Belle rejected him. The Beast couldn't blame them. This was, after all, their last - their only - hope.

\---

Miles further north, a crowd of passengers burst out of a large boat. Most were tradesmen, barking sharply at subordinates to secure their wares. Some were tourists from across the water, or countrymen returning from a foreign holiday. Even fewer were the single passengers, those who had bought a one-way ticket. Within minutes, the bustle of the harbour had absorbed them all, mixing with sailors, captains, soldiers, beggars, and small messenger boys. Although it was the middle of the day, the clouds hung low, a threatening fog hanging over the ocean.

Among the hoods and bowed heads, the rude shoving and general chaos, a cloaked figure seemed to glide through the crowds, towards the waiting carriages that would stop at various towns and cities. It murmured a few words in a driver's ear, before gracefully stepping up into the carriage. It managed to find a spot in the corner, where the other passengers ignored it, too caught up in their own personal dramas. If any of them had been looking closely, they would had noticed a green glow under its cloak, before it removed its hood to reveal iron-grey hair, and a wizened old face. The confirmation that their fellow passenger was merely an old woman caused the other occupants to pay her even less attention. That was precisely what she wanted, as it gave her room to think.

The Enchantress was worried. Ever since she had temporarily taken the hunter out of the picture, she had been left with only the bare bones of her magic - to such an extent that she couldn't even check up on her Beauty and Beast. She had thought that all they needed was a little time to get to know each other better, and that their love would quickly follow. However, their romantic feelings were taking longer than she would have liked to develop. She was thankful that they were friends, since that at least allowed her to change her appearance and avoid notice. Unfortunately, until those feelings ripened, she was almost as powerless as an ordinary human. She couldn't even use her powers to see what was happening between them, since she had used so much magic on the hunter. Normally, the Enchantress would only observe from afar, and then appear after the spell had been broken to explain everything. But this situation was so different, and the prince's birthday so rapidly approaching, that she was uneasy leaving it all to the last minute.

 _This is why including a time limit is a bad idea,_ she thought. _Circumstances spiral out of control, and then I have to step in as a deus ex machina to make sure the poor prince isn't cursed forever!_ She clutched her ring, circling her finger around the large gem in an attempt to calm herself. _I shouldn't have let the suitor get so obsessed over her. It serves me right for trying to make everything more interesting._

A few uncomfortable hours later, the Enchantress was roused from an uneasy sleep by a surging in her veins. She had been so long without it, that it took her a moment to recognise the feeling of her magic returning. She smiled to herself in the dark corner of the carriage, the only light coming from the hanging lantern outside. _Finally,_ she thought. _One of them has fallen in love._ A few minutes of mentally testing her limits revealed some limitations; whomever it was, Beast or Beauty, they had not yet _declared_ their love, only _realised_ it.

 _Better than nothing,_ she thought. _Let's see what we can see._ She took a deep, powerful breath, and her ring began to glow.

In the image before her eyes, she flew across the ground, coming to a stop outside the Beast's castle. It was the dead of night, but there were still small bursts of candlelight from the windows. The image spun lazily around the castle, finally panning in on a darkened window. As it moved into the room through the heavy drapes, the Enchantress could see the young woman from before. She was sitting in bed, a book in her lap and a candle beside her bed. Her eyes sank shut, and the book fell from her limp hands onto the counterpane. The candle silently moved the duvet up to cover the woman's shoulders, and hopped quietly out the room. _Let me see the Beast,_ the Enchantress thought. Instantly, the image shot through the castle, taking the quickest way possible to the West Wing. When it settled, she could see the Beast slumped over a small table, asleep. Three objects hopped off the table, leaving a pen and paper behind. A quick glance at the paper told the Enchantress plainly all that had been discussed. _The rose and the mirror,_ she thought. _I want to check on the markers._ The image moved a few feet further into the room, where the Enchantress could see the rose, exactly where she had sent it almost a decade ago. _And the mirror?_ she thought, her chest beginning to ache with her breath. _Where is it?_ After a moment of searching, the image showed it; face up on the ground, a large crack across the glass.

 _No,_ she thought. A feeling of dread bloomed in her stomach. _That foolish boy - he broke it! How will they be able to check on her father?_ Before she even needed to think the words, the image before her eyes was taking her across the miles to the mental asylum. Unlike before, however, the Enchantress had enough breath left to see inside to asylum. She could see the vicious owner and the miserable inmates asleep in their beds. She could see the cruel instruments used in his 'cures'. She could see the Beauty's father.

With a gasp, the image faded. The Enchantress leaned her head against the door, shell-shocked. _If I don't do something, that man will die,_ she thought. _I create these stories to **prevent** suffering, not perpetuate it. I have to do something, and quickly. _All of her usual options were out; she didn't have enough magic to use them. She suspected she would need to rely on a human to save the man. _I don't have time to create a bond with an unfamiliar person,_ she thought. _Beauty can't leave either, yet; if she did so now it could be disastrous for their love.___

__Suddenly, an idea came to her panicked mind. It wasn't an idea she liked, and it had plenty of potential to backfire. But it was the Enchantress' only option. She closed her eyes, and concentrated. It was always hard for her to undo a spell that was designed to last for a significant amount of time. However, she wasn't solely undoing a spell tonight. She was planting an idea into somebody's mind as well; an idea that, she hoped, wouldn't take hold quite as destructively as the last one had. Her ring glowed brighter as the Enchantress devoted more of her magic to her task, desperately trying to do so correctly. She took her time, loosening each aspect of the old spell carefully and slowly._ _

__By the time she had finished, over an hour had passed. Exhausted, the Enchantress collapsed back into her seat. Despite the mammoth task she had just completed, she could already feel the Beast's love providing her with more magic. She rubbed her ring again, nervous about the outcome of her story for the first time in over five hundred years._ _

__In a small clearing in the forest, covered in leaves and other debris, Gaston opened his eyes._ _

__\---_ _

__The next day, Belle could sense that there was something on the Beast's mind. He didn't smile or chat as often as he usually did, and while he kept up with Belle's narration and reading, she sensed that his heart wasn't quite in it. It didn't help matters that they were at a rather sad portion of The Three Musketeers, with Madame Bonacieux befriending Milady in the convent. At the end of the chapter, Belle closed the book over and placed it on the table beside them. The Beast looked up at the noise, and frowned a little._ _

__"Are you alright?" Belle asked. "I know this isn't the most thrilling part of the book, but you seem . . . distracted. Is something wrong?" The Beast sat up a little straighter - a move that brought him closer to her. With a surge of bravery, Belle did something that, in any other case, shouldn't have required courage. Following on from yesterday's contact, she placed her hand over his._ _

__The Beast actually started at that, his big blue eyes flying up to meet hers. "No," he said. "I'm fine, I just . . . didn't get a lot of sleep last night."_ _

__Belle raised an eyebrow. It was an obvious lie, and from the way the Beast was avoiding her gaze, he probably knew that she knew. Belle decided not to press the matter; she knew from experience that further questioning would just make him clam up or leave altogether. "Okay," she said, picking up the book again with her other hand. "Let's continue onwards, in that case." She kept her hand on his, and without noticing started to rub her forefinger in a tiny circle in his fur._ _

__After they finished another chapter, closer to their normal finishing time, the Beast stood up. He chewed on his lip, a small gesture that Belle recognised as nerves._ _

__"Belle," he said. "I was wondering - you're very close to being done with the Clarke piece."_ _

__"Really?" Belle asked, a tiny sliver of disappointment colouring her voice._ _

__"Yes - you've come on so far," he smiled. "Well, I know that just playing one piece perfectly and moving on to the next can't be much fun, and - and, well - I wondered if you'd like to put on a bit of a - show . . . thing."_ _

__"A show?" Belle asked, confused._ _

__"There's a piano in the ballroom," the Beast explained. "We could go there, at some point - get dressed up, play the song. Maybe dance - I know some of the servants would be excited to play music." He looked at her, excited and hopeful. "Would you like to? Maybe in, say, a fortnight?"_ _

__Belle sat and thought for a split second. It was completely unlike the Beast to ask her something like this. The suggestion that they dance was especially something she had never expected to hear him say. And yet there was something about the idea that appealed to her; not just the fun idea of dressing up as a lady for the night, but possibly to dance. She missed the time when she didn't have to worry about much else than whether or not she would forget the steps._ _

__"Yes," she heard herself saying. "That sounds like a wonderful idea."_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot approaches ever quickly. The final chapter count, not so quickly.
> 
> The mirror has been mentioned before, and if you remember when, then you get a cookie.
> 
> Indeed, it is time for the obligatory 'fanfiction ballroom scene' which now includes a bonus piano concert! This also means it's nearly the end of the film. Fear not, noble readers - there is still a huge chunk of ART to go.
> 
> Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah, if there is no update before then and you celebrate those holidays. A hearty Season's Greetings to you all if you don't.
> 
> Over and out,
> 
> TheTeaIsAddictive


	24. Chapter Twenty Three - The Lovers Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Belle's dressing routine is described in excessive detail, and there is a ball.

**Chapter Twenty Three**

**The Lovers Dance**

A general feeling of excitement dominated the castle for the next two weeks. The younger servants were often found clustered together in groups of three or four, while even the senior staff - including Cogsworth - had a certain spring in their step that hadn't been there before. The wardrobe, already the cheeriest object in the castle, practically bounced whenever Belle approached for her clothes.

"You know, this just makes me think you have something planned for me," Belle teased the night before before the ball. To her surprise, the wardrobe's doors moved in an approximation of a shrug.

"You do?" Belle asked. "What?"

The top corner of it's left door wagged, for all the world like a finger.

"Alright, alright," Belle laughed. "I understand, it's a surprise." She brushed her hair out, then turned so that her back was to the dresser. The pins and comb sprung into action, plaiting her long hair ready for bed. Once they were finished, they lightly tugged on Belle's hair.

"Thank you," she smiled. She got into the bed, reaching into the bedside drawer for her book. It was the same blue-bound book Madame Hoen had given her months before, but now Belle found herself rereading only the text, not the commentary. It gave her a comforting feeling, as if she was drinking out of her favourite mug at home, or wrapped in a warm cloak. It reminded her of Madame Hoen's tiny bookshop; the hidden gems on the bottom shelves where nobody looked; Madame Hoen's sparkling eyes, and her grandmotherly embrace; the smell of paper mixed with the animal smell of the village, and the baked goods from up the street. And that naturally led Belle to the library here, where paper and ink ruled supreme but you were just as likely to find a neglected book on the bottom shelf. If she thought about it for more than a few moments of sensory relief, Belle's thoughts always led her to how home-like she had found the castle over the last few months - and how strange it was that the feeling didn't feel strange.

Belle sighed, and set aside her book after only a few pages that she had struggled to get through. "I think I'm going in early," she told the candlestick on the table. "Thank you for staying and giving me some light."

The servant nodded, and hopped out of the room. While usually Belle loved reading late into the night, she had gotten a sharp pang of guilt the first time she realised that the candlestick she had been using wasn't an inanimate one. While she still fell asleep over a book on occasion, she forced herself to stop reading at a reasonable hour most nights, so that the candlestick still had some time to itself. While she had learned to just accept most of the genuine, gushing hospitality of the castle, Belle knew when she was imposing on somebody unfairly, no matter how well-trained they were.

"Goodnight," she said to the others who couldn't leave the room.

The tapping, creaking, and shuffling noises following her statement indicated that the servants were settling down for the night. Belle shuffled further down the bed, so she was lying instead of half-sitting, and turned inwards, away from the edge of the bed. She closed her eyes, but her mind still leapt around from thought to thought like an over-excited four-year-old. From whatever the wardrobe was planning, to what exactly was going to happen tomorrow evening, to her own nerves about the piece - and a million other things.

Belle frowned into the pillow, frustrated at herself beyond belief. She was tired - the excitement of the last two weeks, mixed with a couple of late nights reading in an attempt to quiet her mind had settled that. But her brain just wouldn't stop thinking, and Belle knew from experience that she wouldn't be able to sleep properly for a good few hours. Rather than stay in her bed, however, she quietly swung back the covers. Reaching out for her dressing gown - something else thoughtfully provided for by the servants - Belle silently opened the bedroom door and walked down to the library. The windows had fairly comfortable window seats, and the night was clear enough that she wouldn't need to bother a servant for light.

Belle tried not to think about why she was so certain that the library could sooth her to sleep. It wouldn't do to start thinking of this beautiful, comforting, castle as home - no matter how much it felt like it.

\---

The Beast was sat in front of a dresser in the West Wing, his very toes tapping with anticipation. He would have preferred to be pacing, but some of the smaller servants were currently trying to brush out his tangled mane into something resembling groomed hair. He winced at every knot they untangled, but otherwise didn't complain. He was too nervous about the purpose behind the evening's events.

"But - but how will I know when the moment is right?" he asked Lumiére for what had to be the thousandth time that day. "I'm not - I'm not good at this, I've never _done_ this before."

As he had so many times before, Lumiére picked up a pen and wrote. "You will just know, Master. And, since we can be at least fairly sure that Belle feels the same way, I have another little piece of advice for you."

"You couldn't have mentioned it before?" the Beast muttered. "You had to wait until the last minute?"

"Master, it is hardly the last minute. It isn't even lunchtime yet - you and Belle still have time for a final piano practice before the main event."

"Not the point, Lumiére," he growled. At the time of the first snowfall, when the castle first came back to life, the candelabra would have recoiled in fear, or left the room altogether. Now, however, Lumiére merely smirked and continued to write.

"I was waiting for Cogsworth to leave; we must preserve his delicate sensibilities." The Beast chuckled a little. "Anyways," Lumiére continued, "what I wanted to say was this. You need to trust Belle to be honest with you. If you feel such a moment between the two of you again, seize the opportunity! She is as much a part of this as you are."

"I know," the Beast said quietly. "Thank you, Lumiére."

The servant bowed gracefully.

"Do you remember that first night, when you all started moving?" the Beast asked suddenly. Lumière nodded encouragingly. "You lit the fire, and I managed to speak. And then I found Belle." The Beast met Lumière's eyes. "I know it sounds irrational, but I'm just - I'm so scared that it won't go well tonight. We'll end up the way we were before - nobody _moving_. Losing my speech again. Losing . . . losing everything."

Lumière reached out, and placed his 'hand' on the Beast's forearm. "Thank you," the Beast said. As if it was some kind of signal, the servants who had been attending to his mane hopped off. "I would be more relived that they're done, if I didn't know that I still needed to sit through another hour and a half tonight," he said to Lumière, the smile on his face not quite disguising the nervousness in his eyes. Lumière tapped his arm in solidarity.

\---

"Well, I suppose I should go and meet Belle in the music room. Last minute practices, and all that." The Beast walked out the Wing, still feeling that little nugget of hope despite everything that stood to go wrong.

Belle's nerves had been soothed by the practice more than she had expected them to be. She had made a few tiny mistakes, but by and large she felt happy with what she had achieved over the last few months. As she finished rehearsing the piece for the last time, gently pressing the keys the way she had been taught, Belle could almost feel the Beast's pleased smile from beside her.

"Alright," she said decisively, "that's all I'm doing until tonight."

"A wise choice," he agreed. "Besides, I have a feeling we're both going to be called away to our respective dressing rooms soon."

"Really?" Belle asked. "How long does it take to get ready around here?"

"Knowing Madame Armoire and Cogsworth? We'll probably be sitting at the piano in three hours, if we're lucky."

Belle laughed, as she knew he wanted her to, and the Beast chuckled with her. "How on earth did y - do people live like this?" she asked, hoping he wouldn't pick up on her momentary slip.

"This sort of thing was only for special occasions," he said. "It was still rather uncomfortable, however. A lot of standing about."

Belle hummed in response, silently wondering anew at the revelation. The Beast hadn't exactly been subtle when mentioning parents and plays, from a time before whatever had enchanted the castle. Nevertheless, aside from a few pointed blunders the two of them had never really addressed his background. Belle's curiosity about this, while always active, was tempered now with knowledge of the Beast as he acted in the present. She knew by now that if he wanted to tell her something about his past, he would mention quietly and unobtrusively. He had always treated Belle's past with a respectful lack of nosiness, and she had learned by now to do the same with him.

As if on cue, Cogsworth himself hopped into the music room. Belle could have sworn she heard him make a _sound_ \- a sort of _ahem, ahem,_ \- but, she reminded herself, none of the castle staff could talk or make any kind of sound. _It must have been the tapping as he came over here,_ she thought.

"I suppose this is where we leave each other?" Belle said.

"See you in three hours," the Beast smiled. The three of them walked to the doors, and then split off - the Beast and Cogsworth to the West Wing, and Belle back to her room. The instant she was in the door the hairbrush and its associates tugged at her dress, pulling her into the centre of the room. Within only a few minutes, she was standing in her chemise, the wardrobe practically bubbling with excitement.

"So, what am I wearing?" Belle asked. The servants turned to each other briefly, clearly conversing. As if on cue, Mrs. Potts hopped in, accompanied by a dictionary. It flipped open, and the hairbrush pointed at a single word.

"Surprise?" Belle read. A comb and powder brush approached with a thick length of ribbon. "Oh, I see!" Belle said, understating their meaning. She carefully tied the ribbon over her eyes, ensuring that she couldn't see out of it. "Well, I don't anymore," she joked.

Again, Belle swore she heard a sound that didn't come from her - a low, hearty chuckle after her joke. Before she could investigate further, however, a creaking sound (presumably the wardrobe) and a heavy rustling stopped her. Guided by the objects, Belle stepped into several layers of petticoats, each of which needed to be tied at the back and front. The sheer amount of underthings required before even stepping into the dress itself had Belle astounded. After a while - it was very difficult to tell how much time had passed with no outside sources - the servants guided her towards a chair. They started brushing and styling her hair, untying the blindfold as necessary while still keeping her eyes covered. Belle winced at the excessive number of pins in her head, but the servants seemed satisfied with the effect. Leaving her face free of makeup - for which Belle was silently grateful - she was led back out to the middle of the room, where they helped her step into a pair of low-heeled shoes. A couple of pokes and prods at her arms prompted Belle to raise them above her head, at which point a final layer was put on her. Curious, Belle felt along the edges of the dress. Her shoulders were bare, apart from some sort of capped sleeve that kept falling off them. The neckline seemed quite low, compared to what she normally wore, and Belle could feel her cheeks heat up, just from touching it. A friendly swat from the hairbrush stopped her feeling the skirt, and at its directions she pulled on a pair of long gloves that came up past her elbows and nearly touched the capped sleeves. Finally, all the hustle and bustle about her calmed. Somebody - possibly the powder brush - pulled the blindfold away from Belle's face.

She gasped. They had moved her in front of a mirror, although for a moment Belle hardly recognised herself. The dress was a beautiful, rich yellow, made out of silk that caught the light in a graceful sheen. The neckline was as low as Belle had feared, but it only seemed to emphasise her neck and collarbones, not her chest. The capped sleeves, as well, turned out to be loose straps, in a translucent soft voile. But the skirt was what really caught Belle's attention. It was large, and full - a product of the endless petticoats she'd needed to out on, no doubt. The silk was gathered all around, in large bell-like curves, a darker yellow sash following these arcs roughly three-quarters of the way down the skirt. Her hair, Belle noticed, was comparatively simple - half-up and half-down, the upper layers gathered into a bun on the crown of her head.

"Oh, my goodness," she eventually managed to say. "This is . . . too much. You've all been so . . . I . . ." If she could have hugged the servants, she would have done so at that moment. Instead, she covered her mouth, to try and stop herself from crying. "Thank you," she managed eventually. " _Thank you_."

Half an hour later, she found herself walking down a small set of stairs to a landing in the ballroom. After a moment, she could see the Beast walking down the stairs opposite her, meeting her exactly halfway. His reaction to Belle in the dress was a less extreme version of her own. It took him a moment to say anything, his eyes darting from the dress, to her hair, back to her face.

"You look wonderful," he said eventually, his voice a note or two lower than usual.

"As do you," Belle replied truthfully. He was dressed in a deep blue coat that complemented his eyes, decorated with gold trim a close match to her dress. His mane had even been styled a little, tied back out of his face with a dark ribbon. He ducked his head a little at the compliment, his ears twitching. The smile on his face showed his pleasure at her words, despite the embarrassment. "My lady," he said, bowing.

"My lord," she replied, trying not to thrill at the implication. She successfully curtseyed, holding her skirts out to the sides to avoid stepping on them. The Beast proffered his elbow, which Belle gladly took to steady herself as they walked down the grand stairs. The piano stood in the far corner of the ballroom, and the walk there took less time than Belle thought possible. She seated herself on the bench, manoeuvring her skirts so they lay a little less awkwardly. The Beast sat in a chair just in front of her, just to her right - close to where they sat while practising, Belle realised. A few of the servants had also gather to hear her - Mrs. Potts, Cogsworth, and Lumière among them. Her nerves bubbled up again suddenly. Without thinking, she glanced to her right - to the Beast. He smiled at her encouragingly, no doubt in his eyes.

Taking in one last deep breath, Belle straightened up and began to play.

All her practice payed off - to her relief, surprise, and even joy, she didn't make a single mistake. She repeated the song twice - a suggestion the Beast had agreed with whole-heartedly. It was such a short piece on its own that Belle found the repetition helpful, and even enjoyable. At the end, the Beast stood up immediately, clapping loudly to make up for the servants who couldn't.

"That was _excellent_ , Belle," he said, grinning. "Definitely the best you've ever played it."

"Thank you," Belle flushed, standing up to go and meet him. "I'm glad I didn't fail you out there."

"You could never," the Beast smiled fondly.

They stood for a moment, smiling at each other, until Belle remembered the other reason for their use of the ballroom.

"Shall we?" she asked, extending an arm out to the Beast.

"Shall we . . . ?"

"Dance," she smiled. She took a step forwards and took his hands, walking them both to the middle of the floor. She had no idea where her sudden boldness had come from - maybe her jubilation at getting the piano piece right. The Beast didn't seem to be putting up a fight, however, gladly following where she led. Once positioned to her liking, she dropped her left hand and took a step closer to the Beast. She noticed the quick breath he took in, and could see his arm awkwardly hover in mid-air out the corner of her eyes. She placed it on her waist - and _her_ nerves returned when it spanned her entire ribcage without even splaying open. Her other hand settled on his upper arm - the closest she could get to his shoulder. She could hear a violin begin to play - a glance behind her showed that one of the servants, currently a coat rack, had picked it up.

The Beast began to move, in the basic waltz figure. Belle gladly followed his lead, thankful she wouldn't be expected to lead the dance as well. She looked down at her feet, half-afraid she would step on his toes. At that moment, however, his hand on her waist shifted from a placement to a slight pressure, and he began to spin them around the room. Belle lifted her face to meet his eyes, and the two smiled at each other. She wasn't sure when the piano began playing as well, or even who has playing it; she was focused on the Beast. He squeezed her hand, letting go of her waist, and she spun out under his arm, before twirling back in. She laughed a little at the sheer joy of it. Belle had been a little apprehensive about the dancing, but with the Beast, it became the most natural thing in the world. She could hear the servant's song coming to an end, their dancing slowing as the music did. She laid her head on the Beast's chest, close enough to hear his heart beating. Eventually, they stopped moving, the song at an end.

"Would you like to go out on the balcony?" the Beast murmured. Belle shivered; she could feel his chest vibrate as he spoke.

"Yes," she said, moving away. Although they were no longer dancing, they kept holding hands. The night air was warm for winter - or possibly cold for spring. They settled on the stone rail, the dark woods stretching out in every direction. Belle reached down to fiddle with her skirts again, the silence between them becoming awkward for the first time in a long while. She could still feel the heat emanating from the Beast's body, only emphasising the flimsiness of her dress.

"Belle," the Beast said eventually. "Haven you been happy here these last few months?"

"Yes," she replied truthfully. "You've all been so kind to me; I feel almost at home here." Realising what she had said only too late, Belle blushed and looked away at the forest, instead of the Beast. Instead of him disagreeing, or mocking, however, he inched a little closer. Surprised, she turned back.

"I'm glad," he said. "Belle, there's something I want - something I _need_ to tell you." She looked him in the eyes expectantly, their hands gravitating back towards each other. Whatever the Beast had planned to say, however, was destined to go unsaid.

A low, loud humming noise suddenly flooded through Belle's head - one she hadn't felt in months. With a gasp, her hands flew to her head as the noise increased to the point of pain. She could feel it shuddering down her spine, inside her skull, through her teeth. Her vision blurred - dizzy, she reached out for the Beast, to feel something that wasn't violently moving. Her ears rang, to the exclusion of even her own breathing, but she could still hear a voice inside her head - the same voice from October. _No,_ it screamed, _no! Too late, too late! Her poor father - this is all your fault - the suitor was too late!_

The humming, buzzing, vision-altering experience stopped abruptly, but the words Belle had heard sent a chill down her spine.

"Did you - did you feel that?" the Beast asked hesitantly. Belle turned to look at him; he appeared just as shaken as she did.

"Yes," she said. "I've felt it before, too." She shuddered as she took in a breath. Dread pooled in her stomach. "My father - I think it's about my father." The Beast put a hand on her shoulder. Belle covered it with her own.

"There's a way to check on him from here, if you're worried. I have a -" The Beast cut himself off mid-sentence, a loom of horror on his face.

"What? You have a _what_?!" Belle asked frantically.

"I _had_ a mirror that could show you anything," the Beast said, his eyes wide. "But many years ago, in a fit of temper, I shattered it."

Belle hung her head, the momentary hope destroyed. They sat silently for a moment, as Belle tried to think of something - _anything_ they could do to help her father.

"You have to go to him," the Beast said quietly. There was a pain in his voice that she could neither source not comprehend. "Do you know where he might be?"

"The asylum," she whispered. He shuddered involuntarily.

"Let me come with you," he said unexpectedly. "I can get there faster than you on a horse - let me help. We can take care of him here, if need be."

"Beast, I - I don't think that's a good idea." His face dropped a little, but he kept looking at her. "Papa will have been there for months - I don't know what seeing an enchanted castle would do to him." The Beast nodded in agreement. "I should probably go now," Belle said, moving towards the ballroom. He nodded again, but his eyes fell to the floor.

Impulsively, Belle walked back over and laid her hand on his face, taking his other hand with hers. His fingers tightened around hers reflexively, his eyes searching hers. "Thank you," she whispered fiercely. "Thank you for _everything_."

She stepped back, and ran to her bedroom. The Beast stayed out on the balcony, the palm of the hand Belle had held laying over where she had touched his face. He was still there, a dark figure backlit by the candlelight of the ballroom, by the time Belle was riding Phillipe across the bridge to find her father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for that angst there, y'all. I'm afraid it's not going to get better. In fact, it might even get worse.
> 
> About Belle's dress: the lovely people on Bittersweet and Strange helped me with how Belle would (probably) have gotten dressed for this ball via these youtube videos (/ watch?v=_BNR4zmy9fs) and (/ watch?v=wUOWP_6FDws). I chose to ignore how the final layer was put on, purely because the cartoon doesn't look like it was made that way and that's easier to write.
> 
> The Clarke piece can also be found on youtube here (/ watch?v=qaCEc1Ac8ws).
> 
> Until next time!


	25. Chapter Twenty Four - Maurice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Our Heroes deal with despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: This chapter concerns death.

**Chapter Twenty Four**

**Maurice**

Belle and Phillipe thundered through the forest, the Beast's castle receding further into the distance with every step. Belle pulled the hood of her cloak over her head one-handed, shivering at the cold winter air. She hadn't taken any of the clothes she had worn at the castle - the moment she was back down to her usual slip and petticoat, she had practically fallen into her old clothes again. The servants had tried to help, but Belle had waved them off impatiently - the rudest she had ever been. Shirt buttoned, dress laced up, boots tied (her ring still tangled in the laces), hair down - a list she complied in her head as she hurried, her fingers awkward and clumsy at the worst possible moments. Belle had yanked out the pins in her hair almost violently, barely wincing as they ripped out strands of hair. She had pulled her hair back away from her face and tied it with her old ribbon automatically, before looking around for her cloak.

"My cloak - my old cloak, where is it?" she'd said frantically.

The wardrobe had opened its doors silently, moving the dresses hung up inside it to reveal Belle's cloak at the very end, the cleanest she'd seen it in years. She had slowed for a moment then, swinging it around her shoulders and tying it with less energy than she had dressed herself. _They've all been so kind - all done so much for me,_ she had thought, a lump forming in her throat. _They even bothered to wash all my old clothes every time I used them._

"It's my father," she had said quietly. "Something's happened - something bad - but I don't know _what_ so I have to go _now_. But - but thank you." She'd turned and looked at all the servants in her room - the wardrobe, the hairbrush, the powder brush, and even Mrs. Potts had all gathered. "Thank you, so much," she repeated. "I can't ever repay your kindness. You don't know what it's all meant to me, these last few months." Belle had smiled - hopefully not showing how close she was to tears - and left her room for the last time. If she had been less distracted, she might have recognised the telltale buzz of confused whisperings that had followed her for the last ten years of her life, now echoing in the Beast's castle. Instead, she had ran to the stables, saddled Phillipe as quickly as she was able, and started riding into the woods only half an hour after the mysterious dizziness had struck once again.

"Come on, Phillipe," she had murmured in his ear. "Let's go back to that clearing, and retrace our steps from there." This part of the forest was strange to Belle - she hoped that if she found the clearing where she first met the Beast, she would recognise more of her surroundings. With a press of her knees, Phillipe had reared into action - thankfully not actually rearing - and the two of them were off.

Belle trusted Phillipe to find the way back to the clearing without much assistance from her - it was part of what made him such a good horse. However, it also meant she had plenty of space in her head to worry about her father - and fret about their fate if - _when_ she found him. _I **will** find him,_ she thought. I will. A frigid wind blasted through the forest, almost blowing Belle's hood away from her face again. As if it had been summoned, snow began to fall - not very thickly, but very fast. Belle shivered. _What if he's out here in the snow, all alone - what if he managed to escape from the Maison, and he's been looking for me all this time, while I've been lounging around at the castle?_ Belle shook her head, as if trying to forcibly eject the thoughts, but they kept coming. _What if he's been out here for months? What if he's dead?_

"No!" Belle said aloud, sharply enough that Phillipe stopped in his tracks. "No," she repeated. "Papa's not - not dead. I'd know it if he was. I'd just know." She glanced at her surroundings, but nothing she saw was familiar. "Come on, boy," she said. "Ride on." As Phillipe started moving again, the snow began to fall a little thicker than it had before, and Belle pulled her cloak around her tightly, desperately hoping that her father wasn't out in this weather.

\---

The Beast was still sat on the balcony by the time the snow began to fall over his castle. Belle and Phillipe had disappeared from sight - even _his_ sight - very quickly, but he had still been able to hear them for another ten minutes or so. Now, all his ears could pick up was the movements of the servants inside the castle. It didn't seem to matter that he hadn't moved - couldn't move. Belle had left. She was gone.

A very self-conscious cough caught the Beast's attention, and he dragged his eyes away from the forest to see Cogsworth, Lumière and Mrs. Potts standing hesitantly at the doors. Mrs. Potts hopped over, and leaned against his lower leg - the closest she could come to a comforting presence. The Beast cautiously lowered his paw, and rested it on her side - the closest he could come to returning the comfort without shattering her. He took a breath.

"She's gone," he said aloud, his voice thankfully not wavering. "She left to find her father." Lumière nodded solemnly, and even Cogsworth didn't seem surprised at the information. "I was - I was just about to tell her, and then this - this voice in my head - in both our heads, I suppose - it said something about it being too late to help her father. And I know this was our only hope but - but it wouldn't have been right to say she couldn't go. I wanted to go with her but . . . well, I'm still here." He bowed his head. The small group of servants shared his despondency for a moment - all the hopes and dreams of the past months suddenly dashed, and for the most noble of reasons.

"I'm going to take these things off," the Beast said eventually, standing slowly. "Please don't come for me until - until later. I need to be alone." Without waiting for confirmation, he walked away from the group, towards the West Wing. He would have preferred to run, to get there quicker, but he couldn't find the energy to do so. He ignored all the little clusters of servants he saw on his way there, focusing on stepping one foot in front of the other. By the time he finally reached the West Wing, the Beast felt a hollow sense of relief at the small guarantee of privacy it offered him. He carefully opened the door, and let it swing shut behind him.

The first thing he did was pull the ribbon out of his mane. It curled in on itself as it fell to the floor, while his hair fell back into place easily. He shrugged out of the jacket, letting it crumple where it landed; it was swiftly followed by the cravat. Without pause, the Beast stalked over to one of the messier corners of the room. There, sure enough, was the magic mirror the Enchantress had given him - and sure enough, the glass was shattered, so that all the Beast could see of himself in it was one blue eye.

With a howl of despair that echoed throughout the castle, the Beast threw the mirror to the other side of the room, and collapsed on the floor, allowing himself the luxury to feel the extent of pain caused by Belle's departure - and the unspoken certainty that she would never return and break the curse.

\---

What had begun as a light snowfall that only caused Belle to shiver slightly had turned into a raging snowstorm in only half an hour. Belle pulled her hood as close to her face as possible, hugging the folds of her cloak across her body and hunching closer to Phillipe's back, in an attempt to stay warm. But the snow soon piled on top of her, soaking slowly into the fabric of the cloak and sending rivulets of freezing water down her back. Shaking, Belle lifted her head for a few moments, to try and get a sense of where she was. But all around her was white, even the closest trees rendered shadowy by the storm. She ducked her head back down, as a sudden gust of wind blew more snow over her. The wind was almost a slap across her already painful hands, bare and exposed to the winter.

"Come on, boy!" she shouted to Phillipe. "I know you can find Papa! I know you can!" Her horse - her wonderful, brave, loyal horse continued to walk through the forest, the ever-falling snow hiding their surroundings. "That's it," she whispered. "That's it, Phillipe. Just keep on walking."

She wasn't sure how much time passed in that forest, during the storm. It had been after sunset by the time she left the Beast's castle, but early in the evening given the season. The grey clouds above covered the sky completely, and the freezing, stinging monotony of the snowstorm was constant enough that Belle couldn't have even guessed at how long she was in the woods for. Her sense of direction, never the best, was completely thrown off by the white blur around her. She only hoped that Phillipe was taking her towards the Maison, where she hoped her father still was.

Gradually, the snow thinned out. It had changed once again, from raging blizzard to a slow, steady fall. Belle straightened up, glad that she finally could. She took in her surroundings, trying to place the part of the woods Phillipe had taken her to. It was a small clearing, similar to many others in the forest - for all Belle knew, it could be only minutes away from the Maison. Still, something seemed familiar about it - she just couldn't put her finger on what. Carefully, she steered Phillipe in a circle around the clearing, the sense of déjà-vu only increasing. A strange-looking tree caught her eye - the snow had fallen in such a way that half of the tree looked completely flat. Curious, Belle walked Phillipe over to the tree, and carefully kicked some of the snow off with her foot. To her surprise, half of the tree was, indeed, flat. And on the flat half of the tree was two columns of tally marks, a 'B' and 'G' scratched at the head of each column.

"I'm home," Belle whispered.

She carefully started to lead Phillipe away from the board where she and Gaston had measured their childhoods. Phillipe must have been following instinct during the storm, not trying to find Maurice but instead find safety - the safety of the village. Now that Belle knew where she was, she found herself recognising parts of the forest, even though they were covered in snow. She led her horse along the old familiar path to her house - the same path she'd taken so many times as a little girl, after playing with Gaston. As Belle emerged from the tree line, she could see her house, an indistinct black shape in the darkness of the night, lit only by the moon above. She smiled a little in relief, despite her fear for Maurice and the ordeal of the storm. _I'll stay at home for tonight, and be out before sunrise tomorrow - Phillipe needs somewhere to sleep, after all, and we both need to rest from that snowstorm._ They were only a few metres away, when a window was suddenly filled with a warm, flickering light, as if somebody had just lit a candle.

"Papa?" Belle said, her stomach suddenly buoyed up with hope. A relieved laugh bubbled up, and she urged Phillipe towards her house, an unexpected source of energy getting them there in a matter of seconds. Belle swung down from the saddle, wincing slightly at the pain of landing. But she was too happy to care - she ran up to her front door, swinging it open and running into the hall. "Papa!" she cried, following the light into the living room. "Papa, I was so -"

Belle stopped abruptly. Her father wasn't in the living room - he hadn't lit the candle - he wasn't anywhere in sight. Instead, Gaston stood by the unlit fireplace, evidently as shocked to see Belle as she was to see him. He wasn't as carefully dressed as the last time she had seen him - all his clothes looked muddy and grass-stained, and his hair was tangled and loose. And more than that, there was something . . . different about his eyes - as if he was seeing Belle for the first time in years, rather than months.

"Belle," he said after a moment.

"What are you doing here?" she asked bluntly. "Why have you got a candle lit in the window at this time of night?"

"I was waiting for you," he said quietly. "Well, not waiting, exactly. I thought that if you ever came back, you might come back here first. Looks like I was right."

"So you're here to - to try and take me back? Well it won't work, because that, Gaston, is not going to happen." Belle took a step backwards, a bitter sting of disappointment in her heart. "I'm looking for my father; if he's not here, then I'll just go."

"No - Belle, I'm here _because_ of your father!" Gaston said urgently, closing the distance between them slightly. "Belle . . . I'm sorry, but you won't find him."

"So he _did_ manage to escape the Maison?" Belle asked. "He - he got out of that hell-hole?" She would have liked to say the words harshly, with all the pride she could manage, but there was something about the way Gaston was looking at her that made her stomach feel like lead.

"No," he said gently. He took another few steps closer to Belle. "Belle, I'm very sorry to tell you this, but your father -" He broke off, reaching out to clasp Belle's hand. "Belle, he's dead."

"Don't be ridiculous," she shot back instantly. "Papa's not dead. I'd know it. I'd - I'd _feel_ it."

"He is," Gaston said slowly. "I was in the woods, when for some reason I felt I had to go to the Maison. I'm still not sure why, but I felt like I _had_ to."

A sick feeling began to creep over Belle. She remembered the words that had echoed inside her head, only a few hours ago. _Too late, too late! The suitor was too late!_ She gasped quietly, her hand flying to her mouth. "No," she said quietly.

"By the time I arrived, he had already passed," Gaston said. "I arranged for him to be taken back to the village."

"No," she repeated, louder, shaking her head. "No, no - you're lying, he's not dead!" she shouted, pulling away from him. "He - he can't be dead." Gaston only looked at her, his face sympathetic. "He's not dead," Belle whispered. "He - I never said goodbye to him." She sobbed, tears flooding her eyes. Perhaps, she thought, in the part of her brain that wasn't consumed in this nightmare, it was the tears that were making Gaston's face go dark around the edges.

"I saw him myself," Gaston said. "I'm sorry, Belle - I truly am. We would have waited if we knew you were coming back, but none of us knew when that would be, so -"

"You buried him," Belle sobbed, openly crying, her breath coming in little gasps. "You - without me - when? When did - oh, _Papa_ -"

"Not yet," Gaston said, in an attempt to be soothing. "He's in the church just now. We decided to wait until morning."

It was that, over everything else - the mental image of her father's body, laid out in the church they had attended for the last ten years, like her mother's had been so many years before - that finally tipped Belle over the edge into the sweet relief of unconsciousness, caught at the last second by the man she knew beyond all doubt had put Maurice into the asylum that had killed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm truly, very sorry. I deliberated for a long time whether or not to kill Maurice off, and eventually decided in favour of doing so, to serve the story. I want you to know that this wasn't done lightly, or just 'for the feels', or in any way meant to trivialise death. Please know that it took me a month to write this chapter; I really had to make myself do it. I won't skip over Belle's grief, or attempt to make any sort of light out of it - or try and imply that the Beast can 'love her grief away'.
> 
> If you think the last paragraph contains a plot hole of some sort, remember that we know some things Belle doesn't yet.
> 
> If it takes me a while to update, it won't be out of some mean-spirited 'cliffhanger' attempt, but because I'm genuinely busy. I thank you for your patience with me as an author.


	26. Chapter Twenty Five - How Does A Moment Last Forever?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two idyllic childhoods marred by illness and death are thought about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with Maurice's funeral, and some more of Belle's grief.

**Chapter 25**

**How Does A Moment Last Forever?**

When asked about her father’s funeral, years after the bitter sting had been removed by the caress of time, Belle would find that she wasn’t able to recall the day at all. Only flashes would stick in her mind - Madame Hoen, lacing her into a borrowed black dress. The near emptiness of the church. Gaston’s surprising tact - he had lurked in the back of the church, stood at a respectful distance at the graveside, and then vanished into thin air as Madame Hoen whisked her back to the bookshop. She would remember them only briefly, and she was grateful that her mind had done its best to help her trauma heal.

But on the day of the funeral, she was horrifically conscious of it all, and had to live through the day before she could forget it.

She had an instant of confusion when she woke up not in her room at the castle, but somebody’s spare bedroom. It took Belle approximately five seconds to realise that she was in Madame Hoen’s house, and that she was there because her father had died the night before. It took her another moment to realise that she had been awoken by a soft rapping on her door.

“Come in,” she said quietly.

Madame Hoen, already dressed for the funeral, walked in slowly. She sat beside Belle on the bed, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Belle held herself straight. She needed to prepare herself for later in the day - if she already felt ready to cry, how could she possibly oversee her father’s funeral without breaking down? However, Madame Hoen seemed to understand.

“Let’s brush that hair, alright?” she said. “I managed to find a black dress for you. It belongs to one of the triplets, so it won’t be a perfect fit, but it’s better than nothing.” Belle mechanically dressed herself, merely tucking her hair behind her ears to keep it out the way. The dress Madame Hoen had borrowed was too loose around the bust, and too narrow along the sleeves and waist, but it was at least the right colour. Belle would have liked to wear her own blue dress. Papa had always liked her in that colour. But black was customary. _How many months am I supposed to wear black for again?_ she wondered. _I can’t even remember how long we wore mourning for Mama. But that’s going to be at least two dresses - and what about his things? There’s still some pieces at the house that belong to Papa, if they’ve not been stolen or sold already. And then the cost of a stone and plot, of course - and the coffin won’t be cheap -_

“Belle,” Madame Hoen said, taking her elbow. “We have to go now. It’s almost time.”

Belle’s fingers automatically went to her head, to tie her hair back. To her surprise, her hair was already arranged in a low bun on the nape of her neck. “Thank you,” she said. Madame Hoen nodded graciously. Belle walked over to the door, the familiar warmth of her cloak doing nothing to suppress the chill in her bones. The two women walked briskly to the little church, their hearts growing heavier with every step.

Belle detached herself from Madame Hoen once they were inside, making her way to her usual pew. As she settled herself in, she deliberately turned her eyes away from the coffin at the front of the church. Instead, she looked to her right, to see who else was joining her to pay their last respects to Maurice. To her surprise, the pews were almost deserted. The Cotards were there; it didn’t really surprise her, since besides Madame Hoen they were the people she and Maurice were closest to in the village.

_Had been,_ her brain chimed in. _They were the people Papa **had been** closest to._

Belle clenched her teeth, and continued looking around. She noticed the baker and his wife, as well as two of the Gérard triplets; Belle was wearing the third one’s dress, she remembered; that explained her absence. A scuffing sound from the back of the church caught the Gérards’ attention; they turned around, although Belle couldn’t. Their excitement was enough to confirm who had made the sound.

So few people had come to say goodbye to Maurice. It did nothing to diminish the resemblance to Mama’s funeral. That had only been attended by Belle, Maurice and the minister.

The old village priest took his place at the front of the church, and motioned for the congregation - such as it was - to stand for the first hymn. Belle bowed her head, pretending to look at the hymn book, and closed her eyes.

\---

_The boy and his mother sat at the base of the tallest tree in the gardens. Although their clothes were made of fine material, they did not seem to mind the grass and mud stains their choice of seat would inevitably provide. The boy was pinned to his mother’s side by her arm, which draped around his shoulders. His bright blond hair dazzled in the sunlight, while his mother's auburn shade was made even darker by the shadows that fell upon it. She held a book securely in her other hand, a gentle breeze rustling the edges of the pages. Carefully, she finished reading the passage aloud, and laid the book on her lap._

_"How much of that did you understand?" she asked her son._

_"Um . . ." he said. "A little?"_

_"Can you try reading it out loud?" she asked, passing the book over._

_The boy squinted at the book, his teeth nibbling the inside of his lip. Hesitantly, he flipped to the first page._

_"T- tw-oh -"_

_"Two," she corrected._

_"Two," he repeated. "House . . . holds? Both alike in - in -"_

_The boy slammed the book shut suddenly, an ugly frown on his face._

_His mother cried out his name as a rebuke, shocked at his outburst._

_"Why do we even have to learn English?" he asked, pouting. "Cogsworth can just translate for us anyway. And the Englishmen won't learn French - not the traders, anyway."_

_“Because, my little man, it is important that we appear as aristocratic as the king and all his Court.”_

_The boy scowled a little at the old nickname - he was tall for his age, not to mention he was almost ten - not a **little** man at all, anymore. It was clear that he didn’t completely understand his mother’s explanation, either. She sighed and started stroking his hair soothingly as she searched for the right words. _

_“Our family is not one with a very long or distinguished lineage; we are only granted the ability to stay in this castle because your grandpapa was a rich, clever man, who was given a title by the old king. It makes things easier if we do as little as possible to remind the Court that we are not like them. So we learn English, and we wear the same fashions, and we employ tutors for you -” and at that point she tapped his nose, causing the boy to giggle despite his grumpiness “- so that you appear just as smart and well-bred as the other boys your age.”_

_“The other boys aren’t very nice at all,” the boy observed. “They’re always so rude to their servants, even when they’re in the same room!”_

_“That’s a shame,” his mother said. “People have always said that we are too familiar with our servants, but that’s one part of our life that I refuse to varnish the same colour as Versailles. Appearances are very important, my little man, but kindness is even more so.”_

_The boy picked up his book again, as his mother turned her head to the side and coughed into a handkerchief, a little too loudly to be called ladylike. He didn’t know it at the time, but that day under the tree was one of the last days he would have with his mother in full health._

\---

The lace on Belle’s neckline was starting to itch. She had to resist the urge to reach up and scratch at it; not only would it do nothing to alleviate the irritation, it would garner her strange looks from the few mourners who had come to see Maurice off. She normally would have just scratched the itch. Not today. 

The priest was finally, _finally_ , gesturing to the congregation to rise for the final hymn. Belle subtly stretched her legs and ankles; it was easier than usual to hide it, since the Gérard girl’s dress was longer than her own. She sang the words almost mindlessly, keeping her eyes fixed on the words in front of her. It took her two verses and a chorus to realise that the hymn was the same as one she had sung not long after her mother’s funeral, on the long drive to Molyneaux. 

She had been so little back then; Maurice had needed to lift her into the wagon, squeezing her in between his own large bulk and a small crate of dishes. They had started packing for their new home as soon as Maurice had stopped merely going through the motions of life after Madeleine’s death. They had known in advance that they would move after she died; they had known that money would be very tight for several years because of the medicines they had bought to try and help her; they had known, indeed, that Madeleine was going to die, in advance. Belle had started a ritual where the first and last thing she did every day was give her mother a hug, and tell her she loved her. 

There had been no advance knowledge that Maurice was going to die. Belle wasn’t even sure what their last words to each other had been. 

The priest said the benediction, and the congregation shuffled awkwardly as the pallbearers arranged themselves, ready to step in. Belle walked up to the front of the church, followed by Madame Hoen. Gaston thankfully stayed in the back, although he was also a pallbearer; since he wasn’t joining her elsewhere, Belle supposed he had to be seen supporting her in _some_ way or another. She took another few steps closer, until she was in front of the coffin. Hesitantly, she lifted her hand - but couldn’t quite bring herself to touch the coffin. It would make it all real, in a way that it hadn’t until then. 

Madame Hoen moved to shield Belle’s other side from the gaze of the congregation. She slipped her large, warm hand into Belle’s, giving it a small squeeze. Belle squeezed back, and let her other hand rest lightly on the coffin. Hot tears spilled over her cheeks, and Belle bowed her head as her sobs slowly wracked her body. Madame Hoen walked her out of the church and towards the graveside, when - sooner than Belle had thought possible - the priest was muttering a blessing over Maurice’s open grave. The pallbearers marched the coffin over, and carefully lowered it in. The priest turned expectantly to Belle, holding a small pail of soil out to her. She managed to get as far as holding the dirt in her hand before her emotions finally caught up to her. 

“I can’t,” she whispered. She let the dirt fall - to the ground, not the grave - and turned on her heels. Madame Hoen followed her, ushering Belle through the back streets as she started crying again. The two women were back in Madame Hoen’s house within ten minutes. Belle walked over to the kitchen table in a daze as Madame Hoen started boiling some water for tea in her kettle. She crumpled onto the table, the hood of her cloak falling over her head, cutting out the light streaming in through the windows. In that dark, hot space, Belle finally felt the freedom to do what she had wanted to do all day - cry, with no thought as to who was watching or what they thought, because her father was gone and never coming back.

\---

_The boy didn’t notice his mother’s deteriorating health at first. She coughed a little more, and was a little paler and more tired, but for a ten-year-old boy those things were practically invisible. She stopped coming outside with him so much; that hurt him, but he tried not to show it. He knew with hindsight that his father had been overworked already, and his wife’s gradual illness was just causing more stress, but at the time the boy felt abandoned by his father - left to Mrs. Potts and the other servants’ care._

_It wasn’t until that day in the library, when she had told him about the birds, that the boy began to consider how serious his mother’s illness might be. She had started rising later and going to bed earlier by then - his mother, who loved nothing more than to watch the sunsets or walk in the gardens. The hacking noise of her coughs into that handkerchief scared him for the first time. It was more terrifying when, two weeks later, she didn’t get out of bed at all._

_His father had spent more time with him after that, dividing his time between his son, his duties, and his ailing wife. Neither father nor son noticed that he was growing paler and more tired as the weeks passed, both too upset and worried about the boy’s mother and her state of health to worry about the boy’s father. The boy started fearing every tickle of the throat, every subconscious noise his mouth and lungs made. Even so, he didn’t realise that his father was coughing more and more frequently._

_The order to pack his things as if he was going on holiday came as a shock to the boy. The majority of the servants were packing as well. It was as if they were going to their summer home, but the season was completely wrong. It confused him a little, when he arrived; he had never seen the summer palace in winter before, and it looked like something almost alien. It was more confusing, because his parents had not followed them to the summer palace. The whole trip was sudden, and seemed unplanned._

_His tutors had not joined them, and by the time summer came it was apparent that they would not come at all. So the servants did the best they could to continue teaching the young boy. Each was an expert in their own field, and he learned much about how to run a household and estate. But none of them had ever been nobility - even distantly-related nobility - and they urged him to err on the side of caution and keeping up appearances, if a noble ever turned up at the door._

_For the first year, it worked well for them. The household muddled along, happily undisturbed by the outside world aside from the usual trade relations. Sporadic letters from his parents indicated that their illness was even beginning to lift a little._

_And then, one winter’s night when the prince was almost eleven, an old beggar woman came to the door._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy release of the new film day! (In my country, anyway.)
> 
> I had this chapter almost finished last week, and then I accidentally deleted it and had to re-write it all. Grr. In a way, I like this better than what I originally had, though, so all’s well that ends well.
> 
> A small note regarding the new film: I haven’t seen it yet, or read the novelisation. If anything in this last arc of the story resembles the film, I swear it is a complete coincidence :P I’ve had this ending planned out for about six months, so any matching details will be purely accidental! (However, the chapter title was intentional!)


	27. Chapter Twenty Six - Marital Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gaston and Belle finally communicate.

**Chapter Twenty Six**

**Marital Bliss**

Gaston took a slow sip of his tea, staring out his back window towards the forest. He had already been back out there several times since Maurice’s funeral last week, simply walking around. It felt strange to him, in a way that the forest never had before. As if he had fallen asleep and a hundred years had passed in the meantime, like in that story Belle had told him when they were kids. It was silly, of course - a person couldn’t fall asleep for more than a day or two at most, let alone a hundred years. But something about the forest had seemed off to him since he woke up in a pile of leaves he didn’t remember falling asleep in. 

He couldn’t say what had prompted him to immediately seek out Maurice at the Maison after he woke up. It felt akin to whatever had prompted him to pursue Belle as his wife, all those months - no, _years_ ago, now. 

_Yeah, well. Look how great that turned out,_ he thought. _Belle hates you even more than she did before, and Maurice is dead._ He frowned as he drank more of the tea. He’d been sorry that Maurice had died in the way that he did, but it had nothing to do with anything Gaston had done. Monsieur D’Arc had been understanding of the situation in his usual unsettling way, peering at Gaston over his long, interlocked fingers. Gaston shuddered involuntarily just remembering it. He had never been afraid of Monsieur D’Arc himself, but his father had always been of the opinion that the man spent too much time with his patients to get along with anybody sane. From the little time he had spent with him, Gaston felt inclined to agree.

_I can’t believe I seriously considered working with that man,_ he thought. _What was I thinking?_

It was a valid question. Gaston could remember the events of the last few months perfectly, save whatever had happened to him in the woods. But he couldn’t remember why he had done them. He remembered gathering his things to go in search of Belle; the fury, the fear, the hunt beginning. He remembered the short time of their married life they’d spent together; his delight, her stoicness. He remembered deciding to pursue Belle, trying to win her over, considering how best to play his hand. 

But he couldn’t remember why. 

It was the strangest disconnect in his mind; like something had snuck in there and taken control of his body, but let Gaston think he was doing everything by himself. It terrified him if he thought about it too much - and Gaston was nothing if not fearless and brave, the epitome of masculinity, at all times. So he tried not to think about it, instead sipping on his tea as he gazed into the forest. 

Instead, he wondered what Belle was going to do now that her father had died. Wherever she had been, she was back home now, and they were married - but even Gaston could tell that acting like her husband in any way would be the worst possible thing he could do. That was another thing - where had Belle been? She wasn’t nearly as experienced with the forest as he was, but she knew enough about the stars, sun, and environment to at least never get lost. So if she’d never reached the Maison, and was too intelligent to get lost, where on earth had she been living for the last few months? 

The only person who could answer that question was Belle. But not even Gaston would think of asking her difficult, prying questions like that while she was grieving. He sighed, and drained his cup. He set it on the countertop - he would rinse it out later on, after he had bought the day’s groceries in town. Belle had started buying the groceries for the few weeks they spent together - as was her duty, he reminded himself - but Gaston enjoyed haggling over goods and prices himself, since it often meant that he could entertain the stallholders with tales from the woods. Today, however, he suspected that he would be followed by the same sombre silence that had followed him for weeks after M. Avenant’s death. However, it had to be done - and it wasn’t like a few gossiping old fools could do anything to him. He pulled on his cloak, and picked up the large basket he kept aside for such trips.

Gaston’s plans for the day were completely altered when he opened the door to find Belle, her arm raised mid-knock, quite literally on his doorstep.

The two of them stood stock-still for several moments. Belle recovered first, tucking a strand of hair away from her face and shuffling her feet quietly. She looked tired, but that could have been her black dress making her skin look even paler than it naturally was. He supposed he didn’t blame her for looking like such a wreck; when _his_ father had died, Gaston had kept on going - anything less would have been an insult to his memory. Belle, on the other hand, had no livelihood, no responsibilities, and much more delicate emotions than a man. _It’s only natural that she should be so affected,_ he thought. 

“Come in,” he said when he realised she wasn’t going to leave. He shut the door behind her with a soft _click_ , setting down his basket and hanging up his cloak. Belle didn’t remove hers, he noticed, as she sat carefully on one of the chairs in the living room. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked. 

“No, thank you,” Belle said. 

Gaston stood awkwardly by the door, unsure what to do. That in itself frustrated him - he always knew what to do in any given situation. He hadn’t felt this way in years; the fact that it was Belle making him so uncomfortable only heightened his annoyance. She hadn’t gotten under his skin in this way since after she punched him, all those years ago. Clenching his jaw, Gaston pulled over another chair from the table and sat down opposite Belle, keeping a short distance between them. 

“Gaston.” He looked up at Belle, expecting to see the same fire and loathing in her eyes he’d seen ever since that first proposal. Instead, there was only sadness - resignation, of a kind. “Why?”

“How many times, Belle?” he asked. “I didn’t put him in there.” 

“Oh, of _course_ you didn’t,” she sneered; her disgust was evident, written in ugliness all over her face. “You just _happened_ to have a bargaining chip up your sleeve for when you asked me to marry you again, didn’t you?”

“I never said I could get him out,” Gaston said. “I never even suggested it - you came up with that little idea all on your own!”

“I _saw_ you, Gaston!” Belle shouted, getting off her chair. “You were at the back of the group, but I saw you the day they came for my father.”

“Half the village was there, Belle!” he shouted back. “Of course I was going to show up! But I _didn’t_ call M. D’Arc! If I had done that to blackmail you into marrying me, wouldn’t I have released Maurice as soon as we were wed?”

Belle only stared at him. Gaston felt something akin to the horror he had felt upon realising his recent lack of autonomy.

“Belle, you - surely you can’t think that little of me?” 

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I feel like I don’t know you at all anymore.” She sank slowly back into her chair, and Gaston sat down as well. “It was one thing when we were just . . . just living in the same village, nodding in the street - but then you had to try and make us friends again. You _had_ to try and get me to marry you.” Belle’s hand twisted her ring gently. “Why?” Her dark eyes were trained on his, sharp and stern.

“I don’t know,” Gaston admitted. 

“You _don’t know_?” Belle asked. “You’ve just got - no idea why?!” She started to laugh suddenly. 

“Why are you laughing?” Gaston asked, annoyed at his vulnerability. “It’s not funny.”

“Oh, no, it is,” Belle said, still laughing. ‘Because - because I was _miserable_. I had to run away! Phillipe almost lost his leg in the woods! My father is _dead_. And you - you _don’t know why_ you married me!” Belle laughed more, wiping at her eyes. 

“It’s the truth!” Gaston exclaimed. “I remember doing it, but I don’t remember _why_ I did it!” 

But then, suddenly, he _could_ remember. 

Belle slowly stopped laughing, narrowing her eyes at whatever expression was on his face. 

“It was - it was a -” Gaston stood abruptly, walking over to the table. He couldn’t look at Belle, if he wanted to get it out. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“You think my entire family is crazy, Gaston. I doubt whatever it is will faze me.” The tone was iron and steel, like the expensive bullets he saved only for large animals and guaranteed shots. 

“It was a voice. An old woman’s voice, telling me you’d be a good companion.”

Silence fell across the room again, disturbed only by the muffled noises of the town going to market outside the house. 

“I heard her again in the woods - she told me to go to the Maison.” Gaston took a shaky breath. “But - it wasn’t as if I _decided_ \- I heard her and just went. That’s . . . that’s why I wanted to marry you. Because of what she said to me.”

“Did she tell you to marry me before or after you started talking to me again?” Belle asked quietly. 

“After,” Gaston muttered.

“I see. So you never wanted to be friends again after all?” Her voice sounded small in a way that Gaston didn’t think he’d ever heard before. He turned around. Belle had her head downcast, still sitting in that chair. “Because - I think that’s what hurt the most. That you were being friendly again, and then it was all a lie - no matter which way you look at it.”

“You humiliated me, when you punched me that day,” Gaston said. “I would have been happy just seeing you day-to-day in the village. That was more than enough interaction for me.”

“But _she_ stepped in,” Belle said. He didn’t need to ask who she was referring to. 

“And now we’re stuck, married to each other.” He sighed. “Forever.”

“No.” Belle’s voice was fierce. Gaston looked up at her, surprised at her vehemence. “No, I _refuse_ to be stuck here forever. I had no choice in marrying you, and it sounds like you didn’t either. We both deserve better than that.” 

“What are you suggesting?”

“There’s nothing left for me here,” Belle said matter-of-factly. “If you’re willing, I suggest we get Père Robert to annul our marriage. You can live your life here; even get married to somebody else, if you want. I can go to - I can leave here.”

Gaston stared at her. “Annulment?”

“We never - fulfilled the marriage,” Belle said, a faint blush on her cheeks. “Neither of us want to be married to the other, do we?”

“No,” Gaston said slowly. “But - won’t that follow you, wherever you want to go?”

“No,” Belle said. “Where I’m going, it doesn’t matter what’s happened in my past.”

If they had been closer, Gaston might have asked her where she was going. If they had really become friends, he might have asked why she talked about this mysterious place with a smile on her face he’d never seen before. But they hadn’t been that close in years, and they weren’t friends anymore. 

“Alright then,” he said. “We’ll go first thing tomorrow.” 

“Alright,” she said. She stood up to leave, but paused halfway to the door. “Gaston?” she asked. “I - I know it was years ago, but I wanted to say . . . I’m sorry for punching you. It was wrong of me to resort to violence like that.”

Gaston’s mouth popped open. Out of everything he had expected from her visit, an apology was the last thing on his mind. “I . . . thank you, Belle.” 

She nodded, and flipped the hood of her cloak back up. He knew they were seeing each other tomorrow, but it had all the formality of a goodbye. 

“Belle?” She turned back, frowning in confusion. “I’m truly sorry about your father,” he said. “He was a good man, and he didn’t deserve to die that way.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She shut the door firmly, and Gaston was left in his living room, feeling strangely free in a way he hadn’t for years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, where’d you guys all come from!
> 
> Just kidding, I know it’s because of the new movie (which, as a side note, I adored) If any of you feel like leaving a comment, it would make my entire day, so please don't feel shy! Also, if you aren’t already aware of it, Bittersweet and Strange is a really great forum if you’re a fan - we have lots of writers, and discussion about the old and new films (and everybody is like, so nice, you guys). Give it a look, if you’re interested!
> 
> Okay, onto business; probably won’t update for a while, because academia is literally killing me. That said, we are so close to the end that’s it’s not even funny. 
> 
> Père Robert’s name was borrowed from the live-action film, although no other aspect of his character has been. I consulted with the folks on B&S, and since Belle and Gaston never consummated the marriage (and neither of them want to be married), annulment shouldn’t be a problem, and can even be performed by the local priest in a case like this. 
> 
> Gaston and Belle have been needing a talk like this for a long, long time. It was kind of cathartic, I won’t lie. 
> 
> I think that’s about everything, so until next time!


	28. Chapter Twenty Seven - The Ticking Clock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the passage of time is more problematic for some of Our Heroes than others.

**Chapter Twenty Seven**

**The Ticking Clock**

The annulment ended up being much simpler than Belle had dared to hope. Père Robert had asked very few questions of the two of them, aside from those he was required to ask, and once more to make sure they were certain about the course of action they were about to take. Belle had nodded firmly, while Gaston had made an affirmative grunt. In the briefest of manners, they took part in a dim echo of their marriage ceremony; the difference of course being that these papers would not bind them forever, but instead tear them asunder. At the end, Belle slipped the ring of her finger and gave it back to Gaston. His fingers closed around her hand briefly, before letting her go. 

Belle walked out of the church, feeling as though she could float up into the clouds, she was so free.

The villagers had started whispering behind her back again as soon as they saw her coming out of the church. There was no possible way they could see the absence of her wedding ring, but for the first time in months, Belle found that she didn’t care what they thought of her. Belle smiled at them - not because of anything they had done, but at the relief she felt not being married to Gaston anymore. She walked down the main street, head held high, and entered Madame Hoen’s bookshop much happier than she had left it. 

“Good morning, Belle,” Madame Hoen said. “I didn’t realise you were already up.”

“Gaston and I were at the church,” Belle said, sitting in the chair closest to the window. “I wanted to get it done as soon as possible.”

“He agreed to the annulment?” Madame Hoen asked, flabbergasted. 

“Yes!” Belle laughed. She held up her now-bare hand, wiggling her fingers. “It quite literally just happened - I would have told you yesterday, but you were asleep by the time I got back from his house.”

“That’s brilliant, Belle - I’m so happy for you,” Madame Hoen said, rushing over to give her a hug. Belle held her friend close, her relief palpable as she held her tight. “What are you going to do now?” Madame Hoen asked, straightening up. “I don’t mean to sound like a defeatist, but the people here will probably start talking about you even more than they did before you married Gaston.” She walked over to the kettle, and filled it up with water.

“I don’t care,” Belle said. “I’m not staying.” She watched Madame Hoen carefully to see her reaction. To her surprise, she continued making tea calmly. 

“I thought that would be the case,” Madame Hoen said. She poured the tea into two cups, and handed one back to Belle before taking the seat opposite her. “You remember what I told you - that the men in my hometown wanted to marry me, to possess my father’s money?” 

Belle nodded, sipping her tea. 

“I left Germany to pursue my dream, and buy a bookshop. But I also left to avoid any more proposals.” She smiled sadly. “Nobody could understand than when I said I would never marry, I meant it. I think you’re being very wise, thinking of leaving. But . . . but I will miss you very much, Belle.” Madame Hoen looked her in the eyes, holding her gaze. “You were a good friend to me, these past ten years.”

“I’ll write,” Belle said, leaning forwards to take Madame Hoen’s hands. “And I won’t be far away, either. I promise, I won’t just leave you alone.” 

“That’s kind of you, Belle,” Madame Hoen said. “If you like, I can give you a letter of recommendation for a colleague of mine in Lyons. He runs a much larger shop than I do, but I think you’d be a good fit for him. The work would be mostly bookkeeping, keeping records; not mind-blowing, but the atmosphere would be a lot more exciting than here.”

Belle paused. She didn’t want to waste Madame Hoen’s time, but it was a last gesture from her only true friend in Molyneaux. She intended to go back to the Beast’s palace, at least for a little while; it was the last place where she had felt at home, safe and valued. The Beast had been a friend to her as well. Belle knew what she would do if _he_ was offering her a letter like this. 

“That sounds incredible,” Belle said. “I’d appreciate that a lot, Madame Hoen.”

“I’ll get started right away,” she said. “Why don’t you go to your house, pack up any books you want to bring with you?”

“That sounds like a plan,” Belle smiled. She walked back out the bookshop again, a large basket tucked under her arm as she walked back to her house. The trip that in years past had seemed to take forever today passed in the blink of an eye. She stood at the bottom of the garden path, gazing up at her old house - her old _home_. The chimney was empty, the rooms no doubt cold and dark. The cellar where she and Maurice had passed so many hours together would be overpowered with dust, forgotten inventions doomed to lie half-finished forever. But she had lived there for ten years; laughed, cried, grown, and loved in that tiny house. 

Belle pushed the gate open, hopping up the stone steps as she had done a hundred times before. She opened the door, with its tricky latch that Maurice had installed as an experiment. The hallway was dark, so Belle left the door open as she opened the curtains in the living room and kitchen area. The early morning light streamed in, and Belle was almost surprised to see the familiar objects again. If it wasn’t for the dust, she could almost have believed that she and Maurice still lived there in peace. 

Carefully, she walked up to her room. The curtains were shut, but their flimsiness meant that they might as well be opened wide. Belle picked the few books she rightfully owned off her shelves, stroking the well-worn covers as old friends. She packed them into the basket, and looked around the room for anything else she might take with her. There was an old cross-stitch sampler she had never finished, and never expected to yet. There were some other dresses in her closet - she folded them up as small as they could go, and packed them in tightly. She looked around the room one last time, but couldn’t see anything else she wanted to bring along with her. 

Belle walked back down the stairs, drinking in the sights and sounds of her house one final time. And then suddenly, she remembered something she _could_ bring with her after all. She hurried back to Maurice’s room, and opened the door wide. There on the dresser, was a small portrait of Belle, Maurice and her mother, in a simple frame. Belle picked it up tenderly. She couldn’t have been much more than five or six at the time, and her mother had had to paint herself in afterwards, but it was still the closest Belle had to a memento of her family. Maurice’s hair in the picture was still the deep brown-red of his youth, but her mother had included a few silver strands anyway. Belle stroked their faces gently, and tucked it away in her basket, underneath the dresses and books. 

Finished, Belle drew all the curtains, closed up all the shutters, and shut the door with an air of finality. It hardly seemed possible that it was mid-afternoon already, but the sun shone down as brightly as ever. Belle turned back one last time, and for a moment she simply looked. A fortuitous cloud appeared to be smoke from the chimney; the sunlight hit her eyes so that the shutters were barely distinguishable; if she listened hard enough, she could almost hear Maurice tinkering around in the cellar. 

The cloud drifted over the sun, and the moment passed. Belle turned and walked back into town, straight-backed and tall. It only took an hour to pack everything from Madame Hoen’s, load up Phillipe’s saddlebags, and say goodbye to the friendly old woman. And just like that, she was on her way, as quietly and unobtrusively as she had arrived ten years previously. They had arrived that day with the sunrise, but today the sun was just beginning to set, its golden rays colouring everything, the sky a picture all in itself. Belle looked back to the little village once more, before really entering the forest. A bird of prey of some kind circled overhead; it might have been a kestrel. Then again, Belle thought, she had never been the best at identifying wild animals. With a soft click of her teeth, she and Phillipe were on their way to the Beast’s castle; the one place in the world that, despite everything, still felt like home.

\--

The Enchantress could feel her anxiety building. She could have sped the Beauty’s time in the village along, but even she, removed from humanity as she was, was not without respect. A man had died. Such a thing had not happened since the old days, when the story of Beauty and Beast took place in times of war and disease - and even then, she tried her best to keep the fathers alive. But this - this was directly because of _her_. Because of _her_ desire to create dramatic tension by adding a rival. 

She didn’t need to look for the Beast to feel his despair - it was draining her powers well enough, without her using more to check up on them. 

_When this is over . . . when she gets there,_ she thought, _\- and she **will** get there, if I have to use every drop of magic in my body to get her there - they will receive the largest apology and explanation I have ever given. I owe that much to them._

Suddenly, she could feel the Beauty moving into the forest, near where she was hidden away. _Time to clear those obstacles away,_ she said aloud. Like snakes rushing away from their predators, branches, blades of grass and tree roots shuffled out the way, preparing a path for the approaching Beauty. 

Almost completely drained, the witch collapsed to the ground. _I have done all I can, child,_ she said. _The rest is up to you._

\--

The Beast didn’t have to look at the rose to know that time was running out. He didn’t need to listen to the hushed tapping of the servants moving around to know that he had sent their only hope away, with barely a second of hesitation. He didn’t need to stay cooped up in the West Wing, alone except for his thoughts, to know that his heart had been completely and thoroughly broken. 

He had apologised over and over again to the castle staff as he met them in the halls. _I’m sorry. I know. I had to. It wasn’t right to keep her here. I’m sorry._ And beneath it all, beating in time to the rhythm of his heart: _I love her. I love her. I love her._

He didn’t eat much - or rather, he ate only when his hunger was enough to overpower his misery. It reminded him of those later days in the curse, when he had given up - that short period before he lost all of his reason. But this was so much worse than that time, because not only did he know what would happen to him now, the Beast _had_ hoped the spell would be broken. That ineffable, undefinable emotion he had felt in those weeks before Belle arrived at the castle - that hope had turned on him now, and left him more devastated than before. 

But despite everything, he still futilely hoped. He hoped Belle would come back. He hoped his servants would find peace before the curse was made permanent.

He hoped Belle’s father was alive. 

The Beast knew that it was truly the beginning of the end the second day after Belle left, when Lumière’s flames struggled to even light. They were in the library, Lumière providing some light as the Beast attempted to finish ‘The Three Musketeers’. The two shared a look. 

“Go,” he said gently. “I know you have loved ones here. Go and be with them while you still can.” Lumière bowed - or was he only nodding? - and hopped out the library. The Beast gazed out the window. He could see small wild birds flocking in the trees. And then, in an instant, he was transported back to that moment in the gardens; Belle beside him, her hand in his; their faces, close together in a way they hadn’t been before or since; her smile, when the bird landed on his head. 

He trudged back to the West Wing, keeping an ear out for the movements of the other servants. If he was truly doomed to live out the rest of time as a Beast, he owed it to his staff to bear witness to their last moments; at least somebody would remember them that way. 

It was little things, after that. The next day, the sounds from the kitchen were a little quieter. The next, and Cogsworth had lost the dexterity needed to write on paper. On the fifth day, the feather dusters had to drag themselves along the ground, no longer able to lift up into the air. The servants started to fade on the sixth day. 

Lumière was so subtle that the servants didn’t even notice his candles weren’t lit until mid-morning. The Beast solemnly lifted him onto a table, followed by the rest of the non-sentient candlesticks that had been brought to life under the curse. The feather dusters stopped moving in the early hours of sunset, when the light was golden and wondrous. Mrs. Potts, the small cup she kept nearby, and the serving tray they moved around on, helped the Beast to tidy and pick up the enchanted objects, until all three faded away at the same chime of midnight. He spent most of the seventh day mourning her loss. He had always been close to Mrs. Potts. The noises from the kitchen ceased altogether, and Cogsworth kept close by him, his ticking the only sign he was still present. 

Nine days after Belle left, less than twelve hours before his twenty-first birthday, the Beast sat at the window of the West Wing, the only living thing left in his silent castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you know, I found some time after all! 
> 
> While technically I did think about having the servants become fully inanimate before the film was released, I don’t think anyone’s gonna believe me about that, so let’s just pop that down under the ‘Inspired By’ column. 
> 
> I couldn’t really find anything about how annulments worked back in the day, so I just went with how it legally happens now - signing contracts. 
> 
> Sad Beast is sad :( Belle, you’d better ride like the wind if you’re gonna get to the castle by midnight. And yeah, I’m sorry for the chapter title already. :’(
> 
> No promises for the next update, blah blah blah university, blah blah blah.


	29. Chapter Twenty Eight - The Lovers Reunited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which forests are traversed, conversations are had, and . . . oh, who am I kidding, it's in the chapter title.

**Chapter Twenty Eight**

**The Lovers Reunited**

Belle and Phillipe trotted on through the forest as the night pressed in steadily around them. It took very little time for Belle to steer him towards the clearing where they had been ambushed the first time - the same clearing where they had met the Beast, and he had saved her life. Now, Belle looked around nervously. If the wolves came for her again, she seriously doubted that the Beast would come and save them this time. Clicking her tongue softly, she urged Phillipe on. 

“Come on, boy,” she said. “The castle is around here somewhere, I know it is, but I need you to find it.” Phillipe showed no signs of uncertainty, plodding on methodically through the forest. It was a little strange, Belle thought, that their passage was so smooth - the trees they passed seemed to be a little further away than was natural, and the forest floor definitely seemed a lot less rough underfoot than normal. Still, if it got them through the woods faster, Belle wasn’t about to complain. Phillipe was laden down once again by heavy saddlebags - the difference was that on this trip, they contained her dresses, books and the painting instead of food and water. Madame Hoen’s letter of recommendation was also in the saddlebag, tucked away safely inside the front cover of a book.

Phillipe continued to trot through the forest. It was a calm night, although the winter air still kept it bitterly cold. Belle found herself glancing up every so often to see the stars, as they peeked through the foliage above them. She found herself wondering why she’d never taken notice of the night sky at the castle - it would have helped her get back that much quicker. _At least Phillipe seems to know where he’s going,_ she thought ruefully. _I can’t even tell whether or not my surroundings are the same as they were last time._ The darkness around her suddenly deepened; looking up, Belle saw that a cloud had covered the moon. 

“Come on, Phillipe,” she whispered. “You can do it, I know you can.” Despite the soothing words, panic prickled her stomach. For the first time, Belle pondered the wisdom of setting off at sunset for a castle she knew was at least two hours’ ride away. “Why did I think this was a good idea?” she muttered. And for a dizzy, terrifying moment, Belle _couldn’t_ remember why she had left Molyneaux that very evening, instead of waiting for the morning. 

The next instant, however, that fear had passed. The cloud that covered the moon was blown away lazily, and the resulting light revealed their destination. The castle was just as large and imposing as it had been the first time Belle saw it; but now the tall towers and imposing parapets felt like the faces of old, familiar friends. There were no lights in the windows - unusual, given how dark it was outside, and how late Belle knew the staff usually stayed up after she fell asleep. 

“Good boy, Phillipe!” Belle said. “I _knew_ you’d bring us back!” The castle being within sight made the remaining distance seem like nothing at all to Belle, and almost before she could think about it, she was in the stables once more. She dismounted and led Phillipe in quietly, trying not to wake any servants who were still up and about. She swiftly unloaded him and stripped him of his tack, murmuring soothing nothings into his ears while keeping as quiet as possible. Once he was settled - and this time, Belle had thoroughly checked him for any sign of injury - she shut the stable doors gently, and made her way back around to the front doors of the castle. 

As soon as she entered the hallway, she knew something was wrong. Even though the only things that could breathe were herself and the Beast, the household staff had always seemed alive, keeping the spirit of the castle moving. The silence that fell over Belle as she moved into the castle wasn’t the same silence she had grown accustomed to over the last few months. It was emptier. 

“Hello?” she said. “Lumière? Cogsworth? Mrs. Potts?” 

It was difficult to see in the darkness, but as Belle kept walking she thought she recognised Lumière’s candlesticks in the gloom. She eagerly moved towards him, only to find that the candelabra hadn’t moved at all. 

“Lumière?” she asked hesitantly. The table he was on was next to a large window with the curtains closed over; Belle swiftly drew them apart, hoping to see a little better. The little amount of light that came in from the outside showed her that Lumière was, indeed, on the table. However, he was surrounded by many other candlesticks and candelabras as well, and none of them were moving. 

Belle drew back a little, unnerved. She didn’t know why Lumière wasn’t responding, but she had a horrible, sinking feeling about the rest of the castle. _I have to find the Beast,_ she thought. Hurriedly, she turned away from the table. _Where would he be?_ she wondered. The late hour, and unusual behaviour in the castle led her to one conclusion. _The West Wing._ Fumbling in the darkness, she followed the trail she remembered from her two previous excursions there; the first time she had lost her nerve, and the second time she had shared memories of her mother with the Beast that she had never shared with anybody else. Now, for the third time, she hoped to find him once more. 

She nearly knocked over Mrs. Potts and the serving tray on her way towards the long corridor before the double doors; if she hadn’t instinctively caught it, Belle had no doubt that the force of her body on the little tray would have sent it straight into the wall. Like Lumière, the teapot, too, was immobile, as was the little cup beside her. Belle carefully moved the tray back to where it had been before she bumped into it. The uneasiness she had felt before was blooming into a slight panic by now, at the utter lack of movement or sound from anybody. She broke into a half-run, as she came closer and closer to the double doors at the end of the corridor, up all those flights of stairs. She slowed to a walk again when she saw Cogsworth standing guard outside the doors. The clock didn’t move an inch. 

If Belle had still doubted whether or not something was wrong, Cogsworth’s lack of movement would have proved to her that everything in the castle was not right. _If this is what happened to the servants, what will the Beast be like?_ she thought suddenly. Now sincerely afraid, Belle opened the doors to the West Wing without so much as a knock.

Even given the wrecked appearance of the corridor behind her, Belle was shocked at the room in front of her. Furniture lay broken on the floor; drapes of fabric were torn and ripped at her feet; and she was certain that there was some dried blood on the floor beneath her that had been there for a long time. But what made her almost forget the horror of the destruction was the fact that somebody had attempted to tidy it. All the debris had been neatly pushed to either side, clearing a path down the centre of the room. Belle slowly walked deeper into the wing, both keeping an eye out for the Beast and trying not to step on anything loose. She wondered if he had been the one to tidy the room, or if the servants had been the driving force behind that endeavour. As she came to the end of the entranceway, the room suddenly opened out into what was clearly a living space. A large bed stood to her left, the sheets twisted and pressed down so that it resembled a sort of nest. To her right was what could have been a small study area, once; pens and paper were left out on a table slightly lower than the desk behind it. 

The focal point of the room, however, and the place Belle was instinctively drawn to, was the large glass doors opening onto a balcony outside. In front of the doors was a small table, on top of which was a rose in a bell jar. A faint pink glow seemed to emanate from the rose, which only had one petal left on the stem; the rest were in a small heap, obviously unmoved since the day they had fallen. Belle took a small step towards it. It was one more strange thing she had seen in this strange castle, and she found herself wondering if it had anything to do with the immobility of the servants outside. As she took another step towards it, she heard a low moan. 

Belle leapt back, looking for the source of the noise. As she turned her head, she noticed one of the shadows outside moving slowly and regularly, as if somebody’s chest was rising and falling with their breaths. The more she looked at it, the more she recognised aspects of it - the barrel-like shoulder, the hint of cloth in the darkness, light glinting off horns. Belle walked slowly over to the balcony doors, opening them so carefully they didn’t even creak. 

She could see now that it was, in fact, the Beast out on the balcony. He was curled up in the farthest corner from the doors facing away from her, his cloak covering most of his body. Belle took another step forwards, and she could see his ears twitch as he acknowledged the sound. He let out another low moan, although he still didn’t turn around. 

“Is something wrong?” Belle asked quietly. 

The Beast didn’t even react, and that scared her more than anything else she had seen so far. 

“Beast,” she said urgently, “talk to me. Are you alright?”

She could hear him start to laugh - a low, self-pitying sound. It sent a chill down her spine. 

“The time is almost up,” he said, almost to himself. “There’s no point thinking she’ll come back. My imagination is surprisingly good, though.”

“I’m right here, Beast,” Belle said. “Turn around.”

He did so, with less grace than she had ever seen him move. His eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Very good imagination,” he repeated under his breath. 

“I’m not imaginary!” Belle cried out, marching over and sitting down beside him. “And why on earth would you think I _was_ , anyway?”

“You don’t need me,” the Beast said simply, as though he was stating a fact. “You left to find your father. Once you’re together again, you’ll have no reason to come back; you were only at the castle because you were stuck here.” There was no air of reproach or manipulation in his words. 

“You actually believe that?” Belle asked. 

The Beast nodded. 

“Beast, I was always going to come back. I just didn’t want my father to be afraid.” She shuffled in closer, until she could feel his body heat emanating from him. “I would never just leave you like that - after all you’ve done for me? You took me in, you saved my horse, you - you taught me piano!” Belle smiled a little, trying to cheer him. “I came here because I had nowhere else to go, but I would have stayed if my father hadn’t been in danger.”

“Why?” the Beast asked, the old curiosity she knew and loved sparking in his eyes. 

“Because -” Belle started. _You’re my friend. You’ve been kind to me. I feel safe here. You’ve always treated me with respect. I like talking to you. We make each other laugh._ All true, every last one of them, but Belle was finally realising why she had come back here in the middle of the night. Why she had noticed the Beast’s eyes and his smile. Why she had felt so safe in his arms when they danced, and so entranced in the gardens when they were bird-watching. Why she had started learning piano, and why she had introduced him to some of her very favourite books.

“Because,” she said, her voice a little shaky at the force of her realisation, “I love you.”

The Beast let out a little sob and flinched away. “That’s enough,” she could hear him mumbling. “That’s enough - don’t think about her anymore. She’s not really here, she’s not coming back, it’s just your imagination -”

“Beast!” Belle said, “I’m here, I’m really here!” She leaned over and grabbed his arm, pulling him over so that she could see his face. He looked utterly shocked, and his eyes flicked between her face and her hand on his arm. “Do you believe me now?” Belle said, gripping his arm tightly.

“Oh,” he said quietly. Gently, he lifted his hand to caress her cheek. She leaned into it, feeling his rough paw on her face and the hint of claw against her skin. She could hear him let out a shaky breath. His eyes looked over all of her, taking her in - as if he really hadn’t believed she would return. 

“I’m here,” Belle repeated. “And I’m not going anywhere.” Slowly - oh, so slowly - she shuffled forwards, giving the Beast plenty of time to move away. He only followed her with his eyes, filled to the brim with some indescribable emotion. She took his face between her two hands, and leaned in to kiss his cheek, in the same place she had let her hand linger just over a week ago. His fur was slightly softer on his face than on his arms or the rest of his body, which surprised her - it was almost like human hair, not an animal’s coat. 

The moment her lips left his cheek, a strong wind blew up around them. The Beast’s hand moved from her face to the back of her neck, reflexively pulling her towards him, and Belle followed his movement. She buried her face in his neck, her forehead pressed against the material of his shirt, and her arms wound around his neck and back. She could see a bright light out the corner of her eye, and the wind began to ease off. The Beast’s body seemed to be shrinking beneath her hands; her fingers were touching now, where before they had been several centimetres apart. The reassuring hand on the back of her neck was still there, though, and the Beast hadn’t moved at all. As the light faded, and the last of the wind calmed to stillness, Belle extricated herself from the Beast’s embrace, only to fall back on her elbows in shock. 

The Beast was gone. In his place was a young man with long red hair, who had a hand stretched out towards her. 

Behind them both, the last petal on the enchanted rose fell. 

“What just happened?” Belle asked, sounding a lot calmer than she felt. 

The young man frowned at her, before suddenly noticing his hand. He gasped, bringing both of his hands in front of his face and turning them over. He pushed one hand through his hair, and caught her eye again. 

“Belle,” he said, his voice full of emotion. 

It was higher than it had been before, but the sentiment behind her name was as genuine as it had always been. Belle pushed herself onto her knees, moving closer towards the young man. 

“Beast?” she said, unsure it was true even though it had happened before her eyes. “It - it’s you, right?”

“Not a Beast, anymore,” the young man said with a small smile that Belle knew well, “but - yes.”

Belle flung herself forwards, holding the young man close. After a moment of indecision, she felt his arms settle around her; one rested at her waist, while the other covered her back. He laid his head gently on her shoulder, rubbing his fingers in little circles over her spine. She could hear his heavy breathing, the way his heart raced as it was pressed against her - or maybe it was just her own rapidly beating heart. After a moment they leaned apart, but both remained in an embrace. 

The young man lifted his hand and tucked a strand of Belle’s hair behind her ear, before letting his hand linger on her cheek. She blushed, and smiled, and his answering grin was both familiar and brand new. _His eyes still crinkle up when he smiles,_ she noticed, and that little thought was enough for her to completely recognise that he and the Beast were one and the same. Almost shyly, the young man tilted his head, leading Belle’s face closer to his own. Realising what he wanted, Belle closed her eyes and leaned in. 

The kiss was soft and sweet, everything a first kiss should be. She could feel the young man’s hand trembling where it still cupped her face. Her own were steady around his body, although her head down to her toes was tingling with nervousness and joy. Belle slid her left hand from his back down to his side, and the young man gasped at the simple touch. She chased his mouth as he broke the kiss, and their lips met once more a second later. She made a tiny noise in the back of her throat as he opened his mouth to her tongue, and when they separated again both were out of breath. 

“I love you,” she said quietly, the sheer joy of the situation bringing a smile to her face. The young man grinned, his body shaking with gentle, silent laughter. 

“I love you, too,” he said, brushing his thumb over her cheek. The words sent a thrill through her; the knowledge that her feelings were, beyond doubt, requited.

“You’re shaking,” Belle said. 

“It’s a lot to take in,” the young man said. “Two minutes ago I was convinced I would be living an eternity alone as a Beast. Now . . . well, you can see for yourself.” He gestured at his thoroughly human body, moving his hand away from Belle’s face. He shivered as he did so, and Belle suddenly realised that they were outside, in midwinter, in the middle of the night. 

“Come on.” She stood up, reaching down to help up the young man. “Let’s go inside before we freeze to death.” The two of them shut the balcony doors behind them and Belle turned a small key in the lock. As she took in the rest of the room, she gasped. 

All of the destruction that she had seen beforehand was completely gone. The room looked as pristine as she suspected it had the day the spell was cast; even the bed had been neatly made up again. The rose, table, and bell jar were no longer in the centre of the room, but in the small study area. Turning back to the young man, Belle noticed that he seemed equally overwhelmed. He sat on the bed, running his hands lightly over the counterpane. Belle sat next to him, watching him closely in case he started to shut down, as he had in the past when conversations proved difficult.

“There’s probably some things I need to tell you,” he said eventually. 

“I’m here to listen,” Belle said, taking his hand. “And . . . there’s a few things you should probably know as well.”

“Alright,” the young man said. “I have to say - you don’t seem particularly fazed by any of this.”

“You rescued me from wolves, took me to a castle where things move by themselves, taught me piano and made frequent references to a childhood and past that bore more than a slight resemblance to that of a human nobleman,” Belle said, raising an eyebrow. “I think this is the most normal thing that’s happened here so far.”

The young man laughed at that - quite loudly, too. It wasn’t the deep, booming laugh she remembered, but the enthusiasm was just the same as before. “You have a point,” he said. “Still - it can’t hurt to start at the beginning.” 

So he did. For the next half an hour, he talked about everything he had tried to avoid talking about before; his childhood, his parents, the little family he had created with his servants in this castle. Belle recognised some of his stories - the piano teacher made several appearances, and she clasped his hand sympathetically when he talked about the year he spent not knowing if his parents were dead or alive. He managed to tell her about the night he was cursed, but abruptly stopped when he tried to tell her about those years under the curse. 

“I - I can remember the first few years,” he said eventually. “But for a long time, I was numb to the world, until I felt that first jolt.” Belle squeezed his hand sympathetically. He turned and looked at her, pure love written on his face. “I was still learning how to be a better person then; I remember that there was a time when I was too proud to think that I could fall in love with somebody who wasn’t a noble.” He shook his head at his old folly. “But that’s pretty much it. I saw you that night at the village, and you know the rest.”

“I think maybe I should tell you some of my side of the story,” Belle said. He turned his full attention to her, and Belle spent as long as the young man had explaining Gaston’s proposal, her reasons for accepting it, and the few weeks she had spent with him before she left to find Maurice. When she told him that she had been too late to save her father, he pulled her close and slung an arm around her shoulders. Belle allowed herself to enjoy the physical contact - the feeling that he was there to support her and that he understood her pain. Eventually, she was all talked out. 

“You’re not upset that I didn’t tell you I was married?” she asked after a while. 

“No,” he said. “You had your reasons, and your privacy. I’m just glad you feel comfortable enough to tell me now.”

She reached up and kissed him, and he returned the kiss, his fingers running through her hair. Her hand ghosted down from his face to his neck, settling on his broad shoulders. Soon they were pressed up tight against each other, both hungry for the affection that had been so long denied them. The young man gasped as Belle broke away, dropping kisses on his neck like rain in a storm. 

“Belle,” he said urgently. 

She stopped, lifting her head to look him in the face. He looked wrecked even at the simple contact they had shared so far, only a sliver of blue visible around his dark pupils. He moved his hands back down to her waist, but did nothing to push her away. 

“I don’t know . . . what you’ve heard about noblemen and pretty young women,” he said quickly, his cheeks flushing red. “But Belle, believe me, my intentions are nothing but honourable. I love you, and I want to marry you - if you’ll have me. But if you don’t . . . then please don’t feel any pressure, or obligation -”

Belle could have cried. “Oh, you dear man,” she whispered. “I love you, and I want to marry you, too.” She unclipped her cloak, and let it puddle onto the floor. “And I don’t want to leave you tonight.” She kissed him again, letting her hands run across his arms, his back, his shoulders. He followed her lead, pulling her close to him. 

It was over much quicker than Belle had expected, from everything that she’d read. Their fingers had both fumbled with unfamiliar laces and buttons, the young man’s hands shaking until she held onto them tenderly. He had been gentle and loving and kind, as he had been with everything they had ever tried, and when the pain came they clung to each other until it passed. They had kissed and touched, whispered confessions of love and soft gasps echoing in the room. Afterwards, when they pulled the sheets over them for warmth, Belle found comfort in the young man’s warm embrace, her head fitting perfectly in the place where his neck met his shoulder. She ran her hand over his chest absent-mindedly, his fingers making little circles on the rise of her hip. 

“I love you, and I want to marry you,” he said before he fell asleep. 

“I love you, and I want to marry you, too,” she echoed, before she joined him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s it! Everything’s done and dusted, no consequences to be investigated, see ya next year for another unnecessary retelling.  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> Okay, I’m kidding. But y’all, we’re in the final countdown, chapters-wise. Brace yourselves. (or not) (you possibly should)
> 
> The transformation was deliberately low-key, because I suspect that the only reason it was so dramatic in both films was because he died and there needed to be a butt-load of magic to bring him back. It was kind of inspired by Elinor’s transformation in Brave - I loved how simple it was, just a hand slowly coming into shot. Would have done it here, but it didn’t work out with how Belle ended up moving. Fun fact: she was originally going to kiss him on the forehead, but then I saw the remake and got kind of salty about how they did the forehead-kiss thing (because I WAS GOING TO USE THAT MOMENT) so went for a cheek-kiss instead. Ah well.
> 
> A note on names: the Prince has not been named in this chapter. This is deliberate. He’ll get a name eventually, but it won’t be Adam. I have reasons for this. (Reasons related to the fact that he canonically doesn’t have a name in the '91 film, and I was working off of that reasoning when I was plotting this) Don’t fret.
> 
> Servants will show up, don’t worry. They’re fine.
> 
> About the sleeping together; some of you might know this was based off of ‘Tale As Old As Time’ on ff.net (which I haven't uploaded to AO3 yet), which had a throwaway line about them sleeping together towards the end. I decided to keep the moment because I thought it made sense for the characters.
> 
> See you next time!


	30. Chapter Twenty Nine - Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet the servants (again).

**Chapter Twenty Nine**

**Reunions**

When the prince woke up, there was no moment of hesitation; of wondering where he was, what had happened, or why he was so much smaller than before. He did not wonder why Belle was intertwined with him in his bed, or why their clothes were abandoned on the floor, or why she was even at the castle in the first place, when she had so clearly never intended to return. There was only the reassuring warmth of her presence, the soft rising and falling of his hand as it rested on her torso, and the feeling of utter contentment. 

They must have moved around slightly in the night, as he was now on his side, his head slightly above Belle’s as her arms were stretched lazily around him. He gently kissed the top of her head, utterly thrilled that he could do so now. 

“You’re awake,” Belle mumbled happily. 

“How long have you been up?” he asked. 

“Not long,” she said. She shuffled up the bed so that they were eye-to-eye, and she pressed her forehead against his. “Morning,” she smiled, kissing him softly. 

“Morning,” he replied when they had broken apart. He tucked a strand of hair away from her face. “We should probably get up.”

“Probably,” Belle said. Neither made a move, content to bask in their shared embrace. 

“I still can’t quite believe you’re here,” he said. “It feels almost like a dream.” 

Belle reached up and pinched his arm, smirking at his yelp. “Still feel like a dream?” she asked mischievously. The air of superiority was gone a second later, when the prince flipped them so that he was crouched over her body, caging her in. Belle laughed, and the prince broke into a smile with her. They kissed again, slow and lazy in the quiet morning. 

“I love you,” he murmured. He pressed little kisses all over her face, her cheeks, her forehead, even one on her nose. Belle giggled, and the prince found himself laughing with her. 

“I love you, too,” she said. The prince moved back as she sat up, and she took his hands in her own and pressed a kiss to his fingers. The look in her eyes, filled with love and affection, wasn’t one that he ever wanted to go away. 

Of course, that was the moment his stomach decided to rumble. 

The prince felt his face heat up as Belle registered where the sound had come from. “Come on,” she said. “I’m hungry too; it’s probably about time we get something to eat.” She hopped off the bed and started hunting around the floor for her clothes. The prince went over to his wardrobe, picking out simple black trousers and a white shirt - the same things he had worn as Beast, but resized to fit his slighter, human frame. The familiarity gave him comfort; even though he had longed for this day for years, the reality of it was still a little overwhelming. He tied his hair back with a plain bit of ribbon - and that was something he’d need to get used to, hair getting in his face - and started walking for the door, since he had seen that Belle was fully dressed again. 

“Darling?” he heard her say, and the delight he felt at the name was something entirely new. 

“Yes?” he said, turning back to her. 

“Your feet,” she said, a small smile on her face as she gestured to his bare toes. He blushed again, and went hunting through the wardrobe for some socks and shoes.

“I didn’t realise you blushed so easily,” Belle continued as he fastened the shoes. 

“One of the only good things about that form was that you couldn’t see how often that happened,” he half-grumbled. 

“I think it’s endearing,” Belle said. “Besides, the amount of times you made _me_ blush, I reckon it’s about time we evened the scores a little.” She leaned down and kissed him again, and that, he decided, was well worth the slight embarrassment of flushing like an overzealous schoolboy. 

“Shall we go down, then?” he asked eventually, after both their hair and clothes had gotten significantly more rumpled than before they started kissing. Belle stood and neatened her hair in answer, which the prince took as his cue to do the same. Their hands met as if they were magnetically drawn towards each other, and the two lovers walked out the West Wing into the new day.

Both Belle and the prince gasped at the appearance of the corridor outside. No longer was it the slightly dark, gloomy corridor Belle had walked through so many times. The wallpaper was a pristine cream, candle sconces on the wall brightly lit. The furniture looked as if it had never seen even a moment’s dust, and all the destruction she had observed beforehand was completely gone. She turned to the man beside her, only to see his eyes filled with strong emotion. 

“It hasn’t looked like this since I was a child,” he said quietly. “Everything’s the same.”

Belle squeezed his hand, and she felt relieved when he squeezed back. “Not everything,” she replied. “Come on. I think the servants are around here somewhere.” They continued walking, at a pace simultaneously reverent and excited, until the prince tripped over a pair of legs sticking out in the middle of the hall. All three people yelled, and the owner of the legs sprung up into action almost before the prince had steadied himself.

“Who’s there? Who are you? Show yourself, you scurvy -” A short, fat man emerged from the shadowy alcove he had been sleeping in, fists up and ready for action, before freezing at the sight of the two young people. Belle took in his brown wig, half-knocked off his head, the smart brown-and-yellow livery, and his thin moustache, but she couldn’t place him at all. 

“Belle?” he asked. She nodded. The man turned to face the prince. “Then you must be - oh, young Master -”

The prince nearly fell over for the second time in less than a minute when the short man pulled him down into an embrace. He returned the hug with less than a moment’s hesitation. The servant - there wasn’t really anything else he could be, Belle reasoned - pulled back after a second, looking the prince straight in the eyes. 

“My _goodness_ , but you’ve grown,” he said, a faux-stern tone trying and failing to overshadow the glee in his eyes. “Mrs. Potts will be positively furious that you’re taller than her.”

“It’s good to see you again too, Cogsworth,” the prince grinned. 

_“Cogsworth?”_

He turned and bowed towards Belle, shaking her hand and bestowing a chaste kiss. “Miss Belle. I can’t tell you how delighted I am that I can finally introduce myself _properly_. I am Cogsworth, head of the household staff. Former mantel clock.”

“Pleased to meet you - again,” Belle said. “How long have you been out here? Awake, I mean?”

“The last time I can remember, the Master was still a Beast and you hadn’t returned,” Cogsworth said. “It almost feels like I was asleep, and you just suddenly woke me up. I imagine it’ll be the same for the rest of the household.”

“We should go wake them up, then!” the prince exclaimed. The three of them set off towards the main hall, where the prince had laid most of the servants to rest. Belle and the prince paused to gape at the wide, airy, bright corridors and stairways as they passed, but Cogsworth continued on single-mindedly, hurrying them along when they didn’t move fast enough for his liking. They soon reached the top of the stairs to the hall, where an overturned teatray lay next to a sleeping woman with large skirts. Cogsworth knelt down and shook her shoulders gently. 

“Hello?” the woman said. She gasped a second later, and threw her arms around Cogsworth’s neck, crying in a language Belle couldn’t understand. Cogsworth responded soothingly in the same language, and Mrs. Potts laughed at whatever he had said. 

“Cogsworth and Mrs. Potts are both English,” the prince supplied helpfully. “I couldn’t tell you what they were saying, though - it’s been a long time since I spoke the language myself.”

“Thank you,” Belle said. 

“M- master? Is that really you?” Mrs. Potts asked, speaking French again and turning towards the young man before her.

“Hello, Mrs. Potts,” he said. “It’s really me.” She, too, leaned up and hugged her young master, and laid a motherly hand on his cheek. Belle was surprised and pleased when Mrs. Potts hugged her as well; although her hair was white as snow, the woman’s embrace was almost enough to knock the wind out of her. A moment later, a little boy ran up and grabbed her legs. 

“Hello?” Belle asked. “And who are you?”

“I’m Chip!” the boy grinned, revealing a missing front tooth. “Momma says you broke the spell, ‘nd that’s why we’re all human again.”

“I guess I did,” Belle said. “But - what about the teatray? Why isn’t it human?”

“Not everything that moved was a person, dearie,” Mrs. Potts said. “Some of the other objects that we used for mobility started moving a few weeks after the spell was first cast, although there were no new members of staff at the time.”

“I see,” Belle said, relieved that her accidental knock the night before hadn’t resulted in any lasting consequences. 

The group hurried down the stairs into the main hall, by now making enough noise that various servants were awoken by their presence, without needing to be physically moved. A group of men in the same livery as Cogsworth, albeit plainer, came rushing down the hall from the opposite direction, and the group stopped again to greet and congratulate them. One man (really more of a boy; he looked slightly younger than both Belle and the prince) walked over to Belle rather shyly. 

“Were the books good?” he asked. 

“I’m sorry?” Belle asked, frowning.

“The books that you always read at night - were they good?” Belle’s expression seemed to compel the boy to keep talking. “Only - you were always reading late at night, even after spending all afternoon in the library, so I wondered if they were good - but it wasn’t a problem that you were reading late at night! You were always very nice, letting me out well before midnight every night -”

“Were you the candlestick I read with?” Belle cut him off mid-stream. 

“Yes, miss,” he said. Her interruption seemed to have reminded him of his station, and she suddenly felt slightly guilty at his forced lack of exuberance. 

“The books were wonderful,” she said honestly. “Thank you for always giving me light to read them by.”

The former candlestick seemed almost to glow with the praise. “Thank _you_ , miss - and thank you for letting me stay near Penelope.”

“Penelope?” Belle asked. 

“She was a hairbrush, miss; we grew rather fond of each other, what with spending so much time together.” A rather lovestruck look fell over him; Belle recognised the look from the prince, and wondered if _she_ looked like that while talking about him. 

“Go on and wake her up, then,” Belle smiled, and the boy ran off. A tall, thin man rounded the same corner that all the other men had come from, and let out a cry of delight.

“Cogsworth!” he exclaimed, running towards him and sweeping him off his feet in an exuberant hug. 

“Yes, yes, Lumière - oh, put me _down_!” Cogsworth straightened his wig again, before patting the other man’s arm at a safe distance. “Belle, this is Lumière, our maître d’.”

“Enchanté,” Lumière said, picking up Belle’s hand and kissing it with some enthusiasm. “Mademoiselle, you have truly done us all a great service.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that - besides, from what I’ve been told, the Be - _he_ had something to do with it as well.” Belle flushed bright red at her slip, but nobody else seemed to notice that she had almost called her darling a Beast. 

“I suppose,” Lumière winked, and Belle instantly liked him. “Where is he, anyway?”

“Lumière, you ran _past_ me,” the prince laughed. Lumière looked shocked, and jogged back to embrace him. 

“What do you know?” he said a moment later. “You grew taller than me after all!”

Everybody assembled laughed at that, and as the servants continued to enjoy their new forms and wake up the others, the prince hung back with Belle. 

“It’s good to see them again,” he said. “It’s nice to hear other people, after so long being just myself, or just you and Phillipe.”

“ . . . but it’s a little overwhelming,” Belle guessed. His sheepish grin confirmed her thoughts. “Come on,” she said, pulling him by the hand around the castle.

“Where are we going?” he asked. 

“Somewhere we can get a little peace and quiet,” Belle said. Their hunger momentarily forgotten, the two young people soon found themselves outside the music room. Belle and the prince took their usual seat on the piano stool, and his hand rested casually on her waist. Belle lifted the fingers of his other hand and pressed a kiss to them, before letting it settle in her hand. 

“Once the celebrations have worn off, we’ll need to talk as a household,” the prince said. “Figure out what story we’re going with, and how we move on from here.”

“Not today, though,” Belle said. 

“Not today,” he agreed. They sat in comfortable silence, as they had many times before. 

“What’s your name?” Belle asked quietly. “I can’t call you ‘Beast’ anymore.”

“The Enchantress . . . she took it from me along with everything else, that night.” The prince shuffled closer to Belle, and she could feel the steady beat of his heart as his chest pressed against her. “I can remember it, now, but it doesn’t seem to fit me anymore.”

“What should I call you then, darling?” Belle asked. She wasn’t prepared for a blinding smile at her words. 

“Maybe . . . just that? At least until it feels more real.” The prince’s ears and face turned bright red, and Belle pulled him down into a kiss. His lips moved softly with her own, and his hold on her waist strengthened, although not as hard as it had been during the night. 

“Alright, darling,” she said. The little thrill those words sent through her was something Belle couldn’t ignore, and she didn’t want to either. “Until it feels more real.” 

The prince kissed her cheek. He then nudged her further down the piano stool until he was in the centre of the piano, causing Belle to almost fall off the end. 

“What was that for?!” Belle asked. 

“Now that I know I won’t accidentally break this thing, I can _finally_ play it again!” the prince said. “I’ve missed it; I didn’t realise how much until I started teaching you.” 

Belle smiled and set her hands on her lap, and the prince began, rather haltingly, to play the same exercises which he had taught Belle, for the first time in ten years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I _told_ you the servants would be fine. Honestly. 
> 
> The prince will get a name eventually. Patience, guys. I already know what it’s going to be, too. 
> 
> We are getting even closer to the end, guys. It’s not going to be like BAFF this time - I actually have these chapters _planned. In advance._ Check me out. 
> 
> Next time: somebody has a lot of apologising to do. 
> 
> See you guys then, and please comment if you liked this!


	31. Chapter Thirty - A Rose's Thorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an apology is given, and a decision is made.

**Chapter Thirty**

**A Rose’s Thorn**

The next week after the transformation passed by quickly. Cogsworth, who appeared to be a rather neurotic but mannerly butler, buried himself in a flurry of letters as he tried to figure out who at Court knew what, when, and how. The rest of the household busied themselves making the castle spick and span as it had been in former days, and once again its walls buzzed with chatter and life. 

Belle spent most of that week getting to know the dozens of servants she had interacted with every day. Madame de Garderobe, Penelope and her admirer (whose name turned out to be Luc), Lumière, Mrs. Potts and many others came up to her and talked for at least a few minutes each day. It took her most of the first two days to figure out who had been what object, but once the association was fixed in her mind Belle found that she was chatting away to them as if she’d known them for months - which she had, really. The friendly hubbub was almost like being back at home in the village again. On occasion she would catch somebody staring at their hands or body in wonder; Belle always looked away as soon as she noticed those moments, out of respect for the enormous shift the whole castle had just gone through. 

The prince seemed to be going through a re-adjustment of his own. All the myriad things he couldn’t do before, with the overlarge claws and hands of the Beast, he took delight in doing now that his hands were the right size. He and Belle spent a lot of time at the piano and in the library, as they had before - only now, the prince could demonstrate on the piano when Belle was struggling with a phrase, and he could turn the pages of their book if he wanted. His reading skills were still less developed than Belle sensed he had hoped, but she knew it was nothing that time and practise wouldn’t fix; both of which they used to finished ‘The Three Musketeers’. It took them longer than it possibly should have, however, as on more than one occasion when Belle placed a casual hand on his leg or ran her fingers through his hair, they ended up tangled in each others arms kissing fiercely, the book forgotten on the floor. 

“What is it about me touching you?” Belle laughed after one such encounter early in the week. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

The prince smiled back at her, his cheeks and ears a bright pink and hair distinctly more dishevelled than hers. “I like your hands, I guess? I noticed them a lot when I was under the curse. They’re strong and capable - they show that you’ve worked, and hard. But they can also be so precise and graceful.” He pressed a kiss to her open palm, his ears rapidly turning redder, and Belle felt her stomach swoop. “A lot like you, I guess,” he said. Belle couldn’t stop herself from winding her hand back into his hair and kissing him again at that, as her other hand roamed over his chest. 

Although they shared many passionate kisses, they had mutually decided to wait until they were married before they slept together again - and even if they hadn’t, the servants were so busy re-organising the castle that although Belle and the prince were often together, they were rarely completely alone. There was nothing to stop them expressing more casual displays of affection, however, and the two of them would at the very least have an arm around each other if they were in the same room together. 

The staff had expressed universal glee at the formal announcement of their engagement. Mrs. Potts had fretted that there was no engagement ring at hand, since the prince’s mother had kept all her jewellery with her and out of habit always stored it in their home. Both Belle and the prince had merely smiled at her upset, but to appease Mrs. Potts he gave Belle a small signet ring to serve as a temporary engagement ring. He had last used it as a young boy, and as such it fit very snugly on Belle’s pinkie finger. Belle found herself running her fingers over the ring - unlike the oppressive weight of Gaston’s wedding ring, the prince’s ring almost comforted her as an outwards symbol of their relationship. 

Seven days after the transformation, Belle and the prince were sitting in the library once again, having another read-through of ‘Much Ado’. 

“Last time you read the whole thing by yourself, sweetheart,” he said. “Now that I can actually read again, I’d like to join you.”

“Alright,” Belle conceded, although she was laughing. “I take it you’ll read Benedick?”

“To your Beatrice?”

Belle nodded, and something about her expression made the prince kiss her out of nowhere. 

“Darling!” she gasped, placing the book on the arm of the sofa to avoid further damage. However, at the very instant she turned back towards him, her fingers already itching for his skin, a bright green light flooded the room. 

Belle and the prince both turned towards the source of the light, which was a few feet behind the sofa. Their hands intertwined instinctively, as Belle saw fear ripple through her beloved’s body. The light seemed to twist, until it took on the outline of a cloaked figure. The outline suddenly became filled in and solid, as the light dwindled to a spot where Belle fancied its hand might rest. She had a moment to realise that whatever the figure was, it was clearly magical - not only had it suddenly appeared in the library, it was also floating a few centimetres off the ground. 

Several things suddenly happened at once. 

The figure threw back its hood to reveal an ethereally beautiful woman with long, flowing blonde hair, dressed entirely in varying shades of green.

“You,” the prince gasped, and staggered backwards off the sofa. 

The windows and doors in the library flew shut, although the late winter sun still shone into the room. 

Belle moved in front of the prince, still grasping his hand tightly. She didn’t need to be told who this woman was. Only one person could cause the prince to react the way he had. 

_Hello again, young prince,_ the Enchantress said. _It’s been a long ten years, hasn’t it?_

If Belle hadn’t known the prince, she would have missed the glint in his eyes, the slight catch in his breath, and the conscious move to correct his posture so that he was standing at his full height. Even if she hadn’t known him, the iron grasp on her hand would have been enough to let anybody know that he was terrified. 

“What are you doing here?” Belle said. “The curse is over.”

“Belle, please,” he hissed. “Be careful what you say to her.”

_There’s no need to be alarmed,_ the Enchantress said. _You have passed my test - admirably, I might add. I have no quarrel with either of you._

The prince’s relief was palpable but minute, as he slackened his grip on Belle’s hand. 

“Then why _are_ you here?” Belle asked. To her surprise, the Enchantress ducked her head, fiddling with the large ring on her hand.

_To explain some things . . . and to apologise for others._

She glided over to a chair nearly opposite the sofa, her feet never touching the ground, and Belle and the prince took their seats again as she sat. 

_I’m sure you must have questions,_ the Enchantress said. _If we begin with those, and perhaps I may fill in the blanks as we go._

Belle and the prince shared a quick glance, and he nodded for Belle to go first. She turned to face the Enchantress, who had an expression of serene calm on her face that must, Belle thought, have been born from decades of practice. 

“There was . . . a voice,” Belle said hesitantly, “that we heard sometimes. And a buzzing, high-pitched noise. It seemed to say things at important or opportune moments. Can you explain that at all?”

_Ah,_ she said, now appearing slightly embarrassed. _That would have been **my** voice you heard on those occasions. My apologies - I did not realise that you could hear me when I allowed my emotions to overtake as they did._

“It proved useful at times,” the prince said. “It alerted Belle to her father’s passing, when she would otherwise have been unaware it had happened.” His voice was stiff. Belle guessed it was a mask of some kind, to hide his fear from the woman who had stolen his life for a decade. As she glanced back at the Enchantress, Belle saw something almost like shame cross her features for a moment, before it was back to the same calm blankness as before. 

“Why curse the servants?” Belle asked. “What could they _possibly_ have done to deserve being left as inanimate objects for a decade?” Now that the first shock was over, Belle found that she was actually starting to get angry at the Enchantress on the prince’s behalf. 

_I thought, since he was so young, that it would be useful to keep his servants around and visible. Other times I merely made them invisible, or bade them leave altogether, but in this case I thought it best that they remain._

Belle nodded, a deep frown on her face even as she digested the explanation. The prince’s head snapped up as the Enchantress finished her sentence, and his eyes narrowed slightly. 

“What do you mean, _other_ times?”

The Enchantress froze. Her eyes darted around the room, her mouth hanging slightly open, as a series of small half-choked noises came out her throat. 

“I wasn’t the only boy you cursed, was I?” the prince asked with the finality of someone who already knows the answer to the question he has asked. His face and voice were firm, but his fingers trembled in Belle’s hand - whether from fury or fear, she couldn’t say.

I - I - well - you have to understand, magic must have its sources -

“So your magic found a source in _him,”_ Belle said slowly as the realisation dawned on her. 

_No - not exactly._ All three parties looked at each other. After a moment, the Enchantress sighed. _It’s both of you. Your love, together, is what supplies my magic._

Belle gasped. 

The Enchantress stared at the floor as she continued to talk. _It is a tale as old as time - the infinite repetitions allow me to stock up on magic and use it to effect change on the leaders who need it. I have been able to prevent countless wars and disasters through this method. The ends justify the means, as they say. It’s only that this time . . . things did not go to plan the way I had hoped._

“Every time it changed . . . that was when we could feel your frustration, wasn’t it?” the prince said. 

The Enchantress nodded. 

“It started with my father, didn’t it? When he was going to the fair - he mentioned a crossroads in the woods that he didn’t take.”

_He was supposed to come here, and **you** were supposed to find him and exchange your freedom for his,_ she said dully. _When he didn’t, I was taken aback. Such a thing had never happened before. Similarly, with the suitor - he was not supposed to make your life a misery, just provide some tension._

_Belle felt as if she was hearing the witch’s words from outside of her own body. She was still talking, the words coming faster now, but Belle couldn’t pay them any attention._

__Infinite repetitions - the story playing out the same way, every time - it affects the magic, after a while. In times past, the Beasts were despicable men, who spent decades alone before finding a Beauty. No time limit, no pressure except their own desires. Outside influences kept things fresh. Changing a few interior aspects helps with that as well - but after centuries of trying to help this world and still finding hideous men, it discouraged me. So I began to look for younger men - men whose lives would be shaped before they had the chance to become the evil I would have to avert._ _

_“Younger men.” The prince’s voice was dangerously low. “When did the change from a possibly callous teenager to a frightened _boy_ begin? What could I _possibly_ have done at the age of ten to justify a curse of that magnitude?!”_

__You did nothing,_ the witch said. _I needed a Beast, and you were the most eligible candidate.__

_Belle gasped, her face a mask of horror. The prince looked as though he had been shot in the back._

__But - but it’s all worth it, isn’t it?_ the witch cried, looking frantically between the two of them. _Isn’t that what you people always believe in - that love conquers all, is worth every sacrifice, no matter the pain and heartbreak suffered in achieving it?__

_"Do you even realise what you've done?!" The prince leapt up, waves of fury radiating off of him. Belle had never seen him like this before. It would have frightened her, had she not felt the same anger. "You've robbed me of the last ten years - you've forced Belle into a marriage she didn't want - you just _threw_ two people together in the hope they'd fall in love, and for _what?_ Some magic?" _

__It's not like that - I do what I do for the greater good -_ she protested weakly._

_"The greater good," Belle said in a low voice. "You cursed a young boy for the greater good? You forced somebody I've known for years to obsess over me to the point of madness for the greater good?" The witch stood limply, taking their argument without any attempt at defence. It only increased Belle's anger, even as every book she'd ever read warned her about angering one with magic. "I've worried for months about my father for the _greater good?"_ Belle's voice broke on the last sentence, the wound still raw._

_The witch flinched. Suddenly, Belle made the connection. It was the moment she loved in mystery novels, when she understood everything that had happened before the crime. In real life, it was sickening._

_"Did my father die for the greater good?"_

_The prince looked over at Belle, having come to the same conclusion a fraction of a second later._

__It was an accident,_ the witch said lamely. _It wasn't supposed to happen - this has never happened before -__

_"Don't," Belle spat. "Just - don't."_

_The witch looked limply at her hands, the emerald ring still glowing brightly._

_“If you’ve orchestrated every part of our meeting - if you planned every last detail, as you say you did - how can it be love?” Belle asked._

__I don’t understand._ The witch frowned. For an instant Belle felt a pang of some sort, as she realised that the woman really _didn’t_ understand. _

_“Love isn’t just a feeling. It’s a choice. A choice that people make every day. But you took away that choice when you decided that controlling people was an appropriate way to get the magic you say you need.” Belle took a breath. “I’ve had my choices taken away from me once before. I will be _damned_ if I let it happen again.”_

__The spell would have remained in place had it not been true love. It has happened before._ _

_“I love this woman,” the prince said, almost defiantly. “And she loves me. And that is in spite of your curse, not because of it. But Belle’s right. To have you capitalise on this when you’ve caused so much misery would be reprehensible.” He turned away from the witch, placing his hands on Belle’s shoulders. “If you want to go . . .”_

_“I _don’t,”_ Belle whispered. “But how can I stay?”_

_The prince lovingly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I feel the same,” he said. “I waited ten years to find a woman to break this spell, and you have done that and so much more. For you? I would wait for an eternity.”_

__If you wish to be together without my influence, you will not have to wait that long,_ the witch said. _

_Belle and the prince turned back to her. “What do you mean?” he asked._

__Seven years, seven months, seven weeks, and seven days. That is the length of time it takes for my magic to fully fade from an event such as this. After that period of time, if you re-unite I will receive no benefit._ _

_“How do we know you won’t try and get magic some other way - or harm another pair of innocent men and women?” Belle asked._

__I give you my word._ _

_“Because you’re so trustworthy,” the prince said before he could stop himself._

__Your anger is justified. Nevertheless, I swear it happily. After the time has passed, I will be rid of all magic anyway. I expect I shall be bound by the rules of mortality after those seven years, months, weeks and days have elapsed._ She conjured up another rose - this time creamy white as her skin. _Once the rose begins to wilt, you will know that the seven years are up. When the petals have all fallen, the seven months. The thorns will fall after seven weeks, and what remains of the flower will disappear entirely after the full time has passed.__

_Belle took the flower, although her skin crawled to touch it._

__I cannot apologise enough for the pain I have caused, the witch said._ _

_“Just go,” Belle whispered._

_In a blast of green light, the two lovers were alone in the library once more._

_\---_

_Three days later, the prince watched as Belle loaded the last of the saddlebags onto Phillipe. The white rose was safely tucked away in one of the deepest recesses - they had soon discovered that it always looked as pristine as when the Enchantress had first conjured it. Belle pulled the buckles tight, and patted Phillipe once on the rump._

_“That’s everything, then,” she said quietly. She turned and buried her face in the prince’s shoulder, and he brought his arms around her tenderly._

_“I really would have married you,” he said. “Forget whatever society says. Versailles would just have had to deal with it.”_

_Belle let out a watery chuckle, pulling away so she could see his face. “I would have married you, too. My darling.”_

_“My Belle,” he said._

_And suddenly they were kissing, their noses knocking and their teeth biting. His hand crept up her side from her waist, while she left a trail of fire over his chest. Belle let out a tiny sound as they clung closer together. Eventually, they pulled apart, both out of breath._

_“Write to me,” he said. “Almost eight years with no Belle in my life? Inconceivable.”_

_“What should I call you?” Belle asked. “I’ll need an address.”_

_“Call me . . . Signor Mountanto,” he said after a moment._

_“And I shall be your Lady Disdain,” Belle said. She brushed her hand over his cheek, catching the tears that were pooling in his eyes. “I’ll tell you all about the goings-on in the bookshop Madam Hoen recommended. I’ll bore you to tears and you’ll forget why you wanted to marry me.”_

_“I think Court will be more boring than whatever you could possibly think up,” he said. “That reminds me - here.” Out of his trouser pocket, he brought a simple gold chain. “For the ring - so that you won’t lose it.”_

_Belle pulled it off her finger, slipping it onto the chain, and let the prince fasten it around her neck._

_“I thought we had passed through the trials, you know,” she said quietly. “That maybe we could enjoy our lives together. But I suppose a rose’s thorn is as sharp as the petals are sweet.”_

_“Eight years, more or less,” the prince said. “Less time than I spent as a Beast.” He didn’t mention that he couldn’t remember over half of that time - but he didn’t need to. “Don’t forget me,” he joked._

_“Darling -” Belle gasped, and pulled him into one last, final kiss. Into it went all the lightness of their courtship, and the pain of their separation. The sweetness of his breath mixed with the salt of her tears, and hungry fingers grasped at each other’s bodies for the last time._

_When they pulled away, it was with regret. Belle mounted Phillipe, and the prince walked her to the bridge, holding her hand the whole way. Halfway across, they slowed to a halt._

_“Don’t despair,” Belle said. “It’s not forever. But ‘parting is such sweet sorrow’.”_

_“Shakespeare?” he guessed. Belle nodded. “I’ll look it up for next time,” he said._

_Clicking softly, Belle rode away to the other side of the bridge. Away from the castle, away from her home, away from the prince. She allowed the tears to start falling, even though she kept her head held high._

_“Belle!” he yelled, and she turned back in the saddle. “‘Serve God, love me, and mend!’ For ‘I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes!’”_

_Belle laughed, as he had hoped she would. She and Phillipe rode into the forest - his human eyes meant that he lost sight of them almost immediately. The prince stood there, in the January chill, and eventually turned back inside when the wind became too much. Without thinking too much about what he’d just lost, he walked up to the library, and searched for the Shakespeare collections on the shelves. The French set had decreased by only one copy, which he had given to Belle. He knew the line she quoted wasn’t in that play, at least._

_“One down,” he said. “Thirty six to go.”_

_One day begun. Two thousand, eight hundred and six to go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh . . . sorry. 
> 
> *ducks for cover*
> 
> In all seriousness, I’ve had this ending planned for months. It was a sticking-point that came about given the emphasis Belle has on choice in this ‘verse. But fear not - this is not the end. Sorry for the long wait, but you can understand why I struggled writing this. Next time will probably take a while, too, but that’s because of the sheer volume to write. 
> 
> Shakespeare belongs to Shakespeare. Signor Mountanto and Lady Disdain belong specifically to MAAN, ‘parting is such sweet sorrow’ to R+J. 
> 
> The number 7, like the number 3, is very significant in Western fairytales. Hence the Enchantress’s emphasis on 7.
> 
> If you read this chapter and liked it (or hated it), please leave a comment! You have no idea how much they brighten my day.


	32. Chapter Thirty One - Put It Down On Paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which years pass.

**Chapter Thirty One**

**Put It Down On Paper**

Two weeks after Belle left the castle, Cogsworth brought a short note to the prince as he sat in his study, desperately trying to make sense of the last ten years of taxes that had plodded along quite happily without his interference until this point. The prince seized on the note eagerly as a distraction, and it took him a few moments to realise who was writing to him. 

_My darling, Mountanto,_

_Well, I’ve arrived! Madame Hoen was thoughtful enough to include directions to the bookshop on the back of her letter of recommendation, so I didn’t need to go back to Molyneaux. I’m not sure how long the post carriage takes to go between here and there, but I arrived after five days’ travel, and I’m writing this on the sixth day after I departed the castle._

_I was worried at first that I’d arrived at the wrong town, since it appears to be three times the size of Molyneaux, but apparently my little town is just that -- a small village, practically a hamlet! I had a spot of bother finding the bookshop, but I just asked around until somebody pointed in the right direction. Nobody looked at me strangely for asking after the bookshop, or called me odd. It was refreshing. The bookseller, M. Fauvent, is a lovely old man who eyesight is fading -- that’s why he needs an assistant. Even before I handed over Madame Hoen’s letter, I could tell that he liked my attitude towards books, and I think we’ll get along very well._

_I’ve got a place to stay, so you needn’t worry about that. It feels strange, coming home with nobody to greet me -- no Papa, no servants . . . no you. It feels as though you should be just right around the corner, flicking through a book or taking in the sights with me._

_I promised myself I wouldn’t mope in this letter, so I’ll stop myself there. I’m sealing this up and sending it off directly, so you should get it soon._

_I love you, and I’d marry you in a heartbeat._

_Yours,_  
_Lady Disdain_

_P.S. Oh, I almost forgot! The name of the town is Villeneuve - here is the address to the shop._

When the prince look up at the mantel clock on the corner of his desk, he was almost shocked at how much time had passed merely looking at the letter -- reading over Belle’s handwriting, taking in every word and phrase she had used. He pushed aside his work and began writing a reply, already feeling better about the day ahead of him. 

_Dear Lady Disdain,_

_You should know, first of all, that I dropped everything to write this reply as soon as I received your letter. The post carriage seems to take about a week, which is less time than I even dared hope for. I’m glad that you found your way to the bookshop without difficulty, and of course even more glad that the owner likes you. If the townspeople in Villeneuve can see that a person’s intelligence has nothing to do with their gender, then they are lucky indeed to have you with them. If you have the time, I’d love for you to tell me about where you live, so I can picture it better -- you know the castle well, both cursed and as it should be, but all I know is what **you** look like. _

_I have to say that you’ve been such a strong part of the castle that there’s barely one room in it where I don’t think of you. It’s strongest in the library and music room, of course; the books remind me of you as much as they take me to other worlds. I’ve been keeping up with piano as best as I can, although my fingers are still stiffer and slower than I’d like. Even this study reminds me of you, since it’s where I first read the letter you sent me. It’s sad, of course, but in a peaceful sort of way -- does that make sense?_

_The servants all miss you as well. Mrs. Potts, Cogsworth and Lumière keep looking at me with expectant, sympathetic eyes, as if they’re waiting for me to go into one of my old sulks. I heard Chip (Mrs. Potts’ son, if you weren’t sure) ask her why you’d gone away, and the lad sounded half-sulky himself. Even the adult servants are having trouble understanding why you left, although we explained it pretty clearly, I thought. Out of everybody, I think Mrs. Potts came closest to completely understanding, although that might just be because she’s known me the longest._

_On a lighter note, Cogsworth is already trying to catch me up on ten years’ worth of missed lessons. It’s a hard slog -- make no mistake about that -- but I can’t help but feel like it’s something I was always **meant** to do. My family was granted this title on the whims of a king who needed financial backing, and it’s my responsibility to do the best I can for the people of this province with the power I possess. I’m planning several trips and surveys over the coming weeks and months to assess the state of the province, but if there was anything glaringly obvious you’d like to tell me just to get a head start, I’d greatly appreciate it, my love._

_One last thing before I go -- I sent a letter to my mother’s house. I don’t know if she’ll respond, if she still lives there, or if she and my father are even still alive, but I thought it was worth a shot. I’ll let you know if I hear anything back._

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

_Your Signor._

Belle looked up from the letter, a broad smile on her face. She could almost _hear_ the prince’s voice as she read his words. M. Fauvent eyed her curiously as she carefully folded up the letter and placed it under the counter, coughing pointedly. 

“Good news, I hope?” he asked. 

“Oh -- yes, it is,” she said, hoping her cheeks weren’t too red. “I’ve been waiting for a reply for quite a while now, and I was wondering how long it _took_ for one person to reply to a short note.”

M. Fauvent chuckled agreeably. “Very good. Now, Belle, if you don’t mind helping to stack the latest shipment . . . ?”

“Of course, M. Fauvent,” she said, switching places with the old man and rifling through the crate of books. The bookshop was much larger and airier than Molyneaux’s was, with wide windows and tall cases making the most of the available space. It was big enough to justify having the books sorted into different genres, not just fiction and nonfiction, and Belle found that something deep within her was satisfied by alphabetising and sorting each new shipment as it arrived. She started to note down the dark shade of wood used in the shelving, the muffled noise of the street outside, and the large, synced-up ticking of the five clocks M. Fauvent had perched on the smallest shelves by the door, filing it all away for her reply to the prince later that evening. 

\---

_. . . and now I understand, my love, why you love Romeo and Juliet so much. I have to say, the idea of a romance occurring in three days is a little too strange for my liking. Then again, in a way it’s not about their romance, but about how their family’s feud destroyed the children through their blind hatred, twisting such a beautiful, natural thing as love into something ugly. The theme of outside forces ripping lovers apart did resonate with me -- but Belle, dearest, I promise that if ever I hear word of your death I shall wait at least 48 hours before doing anything rash!_

_Speaking of outside forces, I have arrived at Versailles, and met with the king yesterday evening. It may have taken three months to organise the meeting, but the delays in postal carriages and replies certainly eased Cogsworth’s mind as to how prepared I was to meet him. Honestly, I was reciting etiquette protocol in my sleep all the way here! It turns out that the king himself cares little for all the minute details of manners, so the project would have been a complete waste of time had it not been for the absolute scrutiny I was under at every mealtime. I do **not** like Court -- and it appears it does not like me, either. The ladies tittered, the gentlemen looked down their noses, and those of the generation above ours were polite, but cold as ice. The more time I spend here, the more I understand why Maman was so insistent on the importance of appearances; it was probably our family’s only defence. Luckily for me, it turns out that I won’t be needed here very often. As my family was influential only because of our fortune, not our blood, the king advised that I spend my time at home and try to build up the province. I was perfectly polite, of course, but I feel that he may have sensed my relief._

_While at Versailles, I asked around for any information about my parents’ whereabouts. Since the last letter I sent you I have still heard nothing from them, and it was beginning to worry me more each day. It turns out that I have heard nothing because these past ten years they have not been in France - they left for Italy, to try the air there as a last-ditch attempt to save their lives. Of course, since they were ‘new money’ and our province is small, nobody I met had kept in touch -- typical! Lumière managed to find an address from one of the staff, but it will take many months for a letter to reach them. I’d love your advice on what to tell them in a letter and what to say face-to-face -- how to even begin to explain the last decade?_

_I have also been keeping up with my piano, and playing every few days when I can is a great pleasure. I miss teaching, however; it was **satisfying** in a way that I have found precious little else to be. Of course, I had a wonderful pupil to aid me, so perhaps it is just you that I miss, my darling._

_Much as I hate Court, I would love for you to see Versailles some day. I don’t have half the way with words that you do, but I’ll try my best to tell you what I can see at this moment, staring out of my bedroom window across the wide lawn --_

The door to the bookshop banged shut, and Belle looked up from her letter with a jump. 

“Oh, Edmond, it’s only you,” she laughed. “You gave me the fright of my life! How many times have M. Fauvent and I told you about slamming the door like that?”

A boy who looked too tall to be only twelve nodded sheepishly, pulling off his cap and scarf as he hung them on a hook. “Sorry, Mlle Dupont - I think there must be a window open somewhere.”

“In this weather? Maybe in the blacksmith’s!” Belle said, shivering as she felt the unseasonably cold April air that Edmond had brought in with him. “Never mind, now -- go put the kettle on and I’ll find the cups.” Edmond nodded, and the two set about their tasks. In next to no time they were sitting by the stove, a mug of warm tea in their hands. 

“How is your father today?” Belle asked. 

“He was alright this morning,” Edmond said. “I haven’t seen him since then -- now that Easter is over he’s teaching at the _lycée_ again, so he won’t be back until late this evening.” 

“Well, I’m glad to have _your_ company, at least,” Belle said. “Shall we have a look at your schoolwork for today? It’s been quiet all afternoon, I don’t think we’ll be disturbed.”

Edmond flashed a grateful smile at Belle as he fished several pieces of paper out his satchel. What had begun as merely two souls engaging over a love of books had evolved into a sort of tutoring session for Edmond, when the bookshop was quiet enough to allow Belle to help him. 

_He’s an intelligent child,_ she had written to the prince after Edmond had confessed he was finding difficulty understanding the textbooks at school. _He just has a bit of a gap in his logic when it comes to evaluating what he’s read -- and I’m more than glad to help him. I think his father used to sit and teach him, but his wife died recently and he’s had to work instead._ This information had come second-hand from various sources -- Edmond, M. Fauvent, and various town gossips -- as Belle had yet to meet Edmond’s father herself. _If there’s one thing Molyneaux and Villeneuve have in common, it’s that everybody loves a bit of gossip! Still, I’d hate to see Edmond lose a chance at a brighter future because of circumstance._ That first meeting had been almost a month ago, and already the two were thick as thieves.

By the time all of Edmond’s work had been explained, if not completed, it was dark outside. Belle and Edmond, however, were deaf and blind to the world, as she read aloud to him from one of the more recent stacks of books. The familiar clack of the door opening roused Belle from the imaginary world she was living in, and she set the book down quickly.

“Hello?” a man said, out of sight from Belle’s seat at the fire. 

“I’m sorry, monsieur, we’re closed,” Belle said, standing to greet the man. He was short for a man -- standing only a few inches above Belle, who had been a tall woman in Molyneaux and remained one in Villeneuve -- with tired eyes, and the ghost of some stubble on his jaw. 

“Oh, I know -- I’m looking for my son; somebody said he’d be here?”

“Papa!” Edmond said. He rushed over to give him a hug, and Belle noticed with some amusement that the twelve-year-old boy was only a head shorter than his father already. “You’re back! How was your day? Were the boys horrible? Did the headmaster say hello? Have you eaten dinner yet? Are you too tired to make something?”

“Good, no, yes he did, no I haven’t, and yes I’ll make dinner,” he laughed. 

“Oh, good! I’m glad you had a good day back. Papa, this is Mlle Dupont. Mademoiselle, this is my father, Jules Leroy. He’s a teacher! Papa, Belle helps M. Fauvent run the bookshop! She’s been helping to tutor me after scho-”

“Slow down, boy!” M. Leroy laughed again. “Allow myself and Mlle Dupont half a breath to greet each other!”

“Pleased to meet you, M. Leroy,” Belle said, a grin of her own on her face. “I think this is the most excited I’ve ever seen Edmond when we’re not talking about books!”

“Likewise, mademoiselle,” he said. Belle noticed that the tired look in his eyes had vanished the moment Edmond had come around to greet his father. “It was nice to finally meet you, but my son and I must be off now. Until tomorrow?”

“Until then,” Belle said. “Goodbye!” 

With the Leroy family out the shop, Belle closed up quietly, taking the prince’s letter with her, and slunk up to her rooms. She read and re-read the letter, closing her eyes to try and better imagine the palace that the prince was currently visiting. If she tried hard enough, she had found that sometimes she dreamed of him the following night -- and although she would sometimes wake up from those dreams with a face full of tears, they brought with them a strange kind of comfort as well.

\---

_My darling, Mountanto,_

_By the time this letter reaches you it will have been almost exactly a year since I left the castle and half my heart behind. Even though it’s not long after the New Year, I’m feeling out of sorts with the general cheerfulness around me when I think of how long we still have to go before we can meet again. It seems unfair of the world -- and then I remember that we chose this ourselves. After that, of course, I remember that it was the Enchantress interfering in our lives that **truly** set all of this in motion, and I go back to feeling misused by everybody at once and nobody in particular._

_I’m sorry. This is a horrible start to a letter, isn’t it? I would start afresh, leaving that whole bitter paragraph behind, but I realised over the course of the year that I was beginning to edit myself in these letters. I’ll admit it -- I deliberately wrote as if that first year was mostly happy, when in actuality I was miserable until my birthday in July. There were bright spots, of course, but it wasn’t until I really recognised that I was going to grow older out here, by myself, that I half-forced myself to make life here feel better. That was when I started going out into the community more; and when, as I’m sure you noticed, my letters began to grow considerably in length!_

_I wanted to tell you all of this, darling Signor, masked Benoit, because I realised quite suddenly that I was lying to you by leaving all of it out. And that hurt me worse than any knife ever could. I never want to lie to you, and if that means admitting that my bad days feel awful alongside my euphoric good days (which vastly outnumber the bad) then so be it. If we are to keep up this relationship, we have to base it on honesty and respect. I realise that now._

_Now all of that’s out the way, I suppose you’ll want to know how the last few weeks have been. Well, they’ve actually been surprisingly relaxed for mid-winter . . ._

_Dearest Béatrice,_

_Firstly, I thank you for your pains -- the mittens are lovely, and I can hardly believe you made them for me! Whenever I wear them I shall think of you; since I hope to spend more time in the grounds this year when I can get away from my desk, that should be fairly often. I hope you received the music I sent -- I know there isn’t a piano you can use, but you have such a lovely voice you should be able to sing the ones with lyrics, if you want. I was out bird-watching the other day, and I don’t know whether or not you remember the robin we spotted last year, but he’s back again -- this time with a mate. I try and leave some feed out for the birds in winter; I can remember how hard it was to find food in those months._

_Secondly, I finally received word back from Italy -- my mother is alive! You would not believe the relief that I felt, my love. The postal service takes about a month and a half, and it was sheer luck that the second address we tried was the correct one. Her letter brought me much joyous news, catching up on the last ten years. However, two things only marred her letter; the first is that even after ten years, she has been so weakened by the disease that she is unable to travel back to France again. The second is that my father has been dead for six years. My darling, my love -- I had sympathy for you when your father died, but now I can empathise. I didn’t have the bond with him that you had with **your** father, but in all honesty I spent most of that night alternately crying with happiness and with grief._

_Thirdly -- I wanted to reply to your candidness in your last letter as soon as I could, but when you mentioned that the turning point for you had been July I **had** to go back through all the letters and read them again. Belle, my love, reading them again, knowing that you were in pain . . . it shed a whole new light on the situation. Once the idea was in my head it was obvious where your spirits had drooped enough to seep onto the page. You said you felt guilty for editing yourself -- but **I** should have realised it as well. I profess to love you and know you better than anybody, but I didn’t even realise that you were hurting! It’s painfully obvious to look back at it, but I can only promise to do better in the future and share my own pain as I feel it, too._

_Moving on to more recent events; Cogsworth et. al. convinced me that reinstating my family’s old tradition of opening the balroom up to the village on Christmas Eve was a good idea. I would have rather spent the time and money pushing for further investigations into the state of education and welfare in Molyneaux, but if I want to be a good leader I **should** spend time engaging with them -- or at least, that’s how Lumière justified it! And I have to admit, it did bring me closer into contact with the village leaders -- both self-appointed and otherwise (I know you’re wondering -- no, I didn’t see Gaston. I even asked if he was there, just in case your description of him had changed. But apparently he was one of the few men who didn’t want to come here). I also met Madame Hoen, your old friend -- I can see **exactly** why you like her. She has the same air you have - you’re made from the same kind of stuff._

_You never saw the ballroom dressed up for Christmas, but I wish you had -- it was a beautiful sight. It brought back more than a few memories of my childhood, seeing all the old decorations up and shining once more. We cut up a large tree and, with some difficulty, managed to manoeuvre it into the centre of the ballroom. Decorating it took the better part of two days, but we finally finished it a few hours before the villagers were due to arrive . . ._

\---

The late June sun beat down on Belle and Edmond’s heads, as they sat reading in a small clearing near Edmond’s house. It was the Fête de Saint-Jean, and M. Fauvent had closed the shop in celebration as he did every holy day. As a similar treat, Belle had brought out ‘The Tempest’ to read to Edmond, instead of doing homework. 

“. . . ‘O brave new world,/That has such people in’t!’” 

“‘’Tis new to thee,’” Edmond said, lowering his voice to read Prospero. He coughed a little, having kept up the character voice almost all afternoon. 

“Maybe we should stop,” Belle said, marking her place with an old scrap of paper. 

“My voice _does_ hurt a little,” Edmond said. “How do you manage to do it for so long?”

“Practise,” Belle smiled. “I once read the entirety of ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ by myself -- although that _was_ spaced across several days.” She allowed herself to reflect on the prince for a moment; their re-affirmed commitment to each other; his social reform bills taking shape with the guidance and advice of both the castle staff and the villagers; the unopened letter from the morning waiting on her bed. 

A snapping twig roused her, and she glanced over to see M. Leroy approaching from the direction of his house. “An impressive feat, Mmlle Dupont,” he smiled, his eyes kind. While she interacted more with his son, Belle and M. Leroy had created a quiet friendship, born out of easy silences and joyous laughter. He had given her a beautiful pen for her birthday and various nibs at Christmastime; she had made him a long, cosy scarf for his birthday, the day before Christmas Eve. “As for you, Edmond -- there are some chores in the house which are begging to be done, and have your name on them.”

“Alright, Papa,” he said, half-rolling his eyes. “Will you be at the bonfire later, Belle?”

“Of course, Edmond,” she smiled. 

The boy grinned back, and he raced off towards the house. Belle pushed herself off the ground, brushing stray leaves and debris off her skirt and tucking her book in her pocket. “I should be off, then,” she said. “I have chores to do as well as Edmond, but I had a lovely afternoon ignoring them.” 

M. Leroy laughed at the joke, glancing down at the forest floor before meeting Belle’s eyes head on. “He’s a good boy,” he said. “Hélène always tried to make sure he had play as well as work.”

“She had the right idea,” Belle said softly. M. Leroy did not speak of his wife often, but Belle’s general impression was that of a kind, intelligent woman. “But Edmond is a skilled student as well.”

“You’ve done so much for us in the past . . . it must be two and a half years, now?” he said. “You’ve helped his studies, fed his mind -- but you’ve been a friend, as well. To both of us, really. I don’t know what I’d have done, some days.”

“Thank you,” she said, “but you flatter me too much. I’m just a friend -- you’re his _father_.”

“Yes,” he said, slightly flustered -- although Belle couldn’t imagine why he would be. “Well --”

She waited patiently for him to organise his thoughts. M. Fauvent had once said that Jules Leroy had only ever spoken freely to his wife and his son, and Belle agreed with the observation. It was part of why she liked him so much -- he thought through everything that he said, and never used a word more than he needed to. 

“Belle,” he said softly. “We . . . our friendship means something to you, doesn’t it? And Edmond does, as well?”

“Of course, Jules,” she said. 

“I see,” he said. After another few seconds, he spoke again. 

“Edmond is growing up, but he still has the heart of a child. He absolutely adores you, you know. You say that I do a lot to help him along, but -- but a child needs a mother, too.”

“Monsieur,” Belle said, a pit forming in the bottom of her stomach. 

“I know that I’m . . . far from the most eligible man in town. I could not offer you a rich life, but we are friendly enough that it could at least be a happy one. You wouldn’t have to stop working at the bookshop -- I know how happy it makes you, and the independence it grants. I know it may seem sudden, but I have to tell you that I lo --”

“No,” Belle said quietly. 

He stopped talking. 

“I’m sorry, Jules, I truly am, but I can’t marry you. It wouldn’t be fair to you, to profess to love you when I see you only as a friend.” She could feel her throat burning a little, and she fiercely bit back tears. “You and Edmond are both dear to me, just . . . not the way you deserve. If things were different, then --”

“I understand,” he said. “You love another. Do I know him?”

Belle turned pale. She knew, in her soul, that to reveal the truth of her marital status would be disastrous. “No,” she said quietly. She lifted the prince’s ring on its chain from under her blouse, so that M. Leroy could see it. “He -- I -- it’s complicated,” she said, turning away from him. 

She walked back to her house with her head down, desperately holding back her tears until she could reach the privacy of her room. It took her less time than she anticipated to navigate the summer heat and lock herself safely inside. Belle knew that later, when she wrote her letter to the prince, she would feel better about the situation. For now, though, all she could do was cry into her pillow for breaking the heart of a good, honest man.

\---

The prince gently pulled his horse to a stop, allowing himself to breathe in the scents of the forest for a moment. While he still had no desire to hunt, something which the noblemen at Versailles looked down at him for, he liked to take a horse out to the woods every so often and just exist, the stresses of his day-to-day life left behind at the castle for the time being. The bright colours of autumn provided a rather striking landscape -- when it wasn’t dulled by rain or overcast skies, that was. 

It had been a stressful time for him, since the Fête de Saint-Jean. He had finally started to make some changes around Molyneaux -- changes that he hoped would _last_. For one thing, girls under fourteen were now required to stay in school full-time, and he knew from his infrequent talks with Mme. Hoen that this was helping to boost the reading population -- only slowly, but it was better than nothing. They were starting to build a doctor’s office, as the population had also begun rising and the current doctor’s resources were proving insufficient. There were even talks about a scheme to care for the less fortunate in society -- the widows, orphans, and spinsters who fell through the cracks. It all happened so _slowly_ , was the prince’s main problem. 

Another was his increasing status as a sort of social pariah at court. He hadn’t wanted to believe the old stereotypes that noblemen were all greedy scoundrels who cared nothing for the lower classes; indeed, there were some men and women at Versailles who scorned such a description. The problem was that the vast majority of them embraced that identity wholeheartedly, and the king was one of them. Nobody seemed to understand why the prince willingly embraced social reform for Molyneaux and the surrounding area, or why he emptied his own coffers to aid his subjects. Even the kindest among them could not seem to grasp what was, to the prince, a fairly simple and fundamental concept. 

It might have been easier had he been married or even betrothed. But the social pressure for him to begin a courtship, which had been bad enough on his first arrival aged twenty-one, was significantly greater now that he was almost twenty-four and still showed no indication of taking a wife. His only comfort was that he and Belle were going through the same experience; however, he doubted that any of the fine ladies of Versailles would be half as understanding as her friend Jules had been. Although he had been saddened at Belle’s obvious distress in her latest letter, it had made him feel slightly less alone in his own misery. Avoiding the pointed stares and whispers at Versailles was simple enough -- but when his mother had written to him in simple, plaintive language asking why he was still faithful to that peasant girl after almost three years, he had found it difficult to explain his love for Belle in a way that would make his mother understand. 

Shaking his head slightly, the prince steered his horse back towards the castle. Moping in a forest for several hours might be what he _wanted_ to do, but it wouldn’t help the county or himself -- and it certainly wouldn’t help him feel better. It took him very little time to ride back to the stables and take care of his horse, and still less for Cogsworth to find him and start filling him in on everything that had happened in his absence. Still, despite his respite in the woods, the prince couldn’t stop a little niggling feeling that something was wrong. He tried to set it aside, distracting himself with his work taking care of the populace -- and while it did stop him thinking about the feeling, it didn’t prevent the thought itself. 

It wasn’t until that night, when he was writing part of his letter to Belle, as usual, that the prince realised what had been bothering him. 

The Enchantress’ reasoning for manipulating him and Belle (not to mention countless others) had seemed like a handy excuse. But if it was true, her magical ability to ‘prevent countless wars and disasters’, as she put it, had been almost certainly destroyed in the name of their personal freedom. 

The prince pushed away from the table, not even bothering to grab a candelabra to protect his hand from the flame as he raced to the West Wing. Horrorstruck, his dim eyes sought the general direction of Villeneuve from his balcony window. 

He didn’t even notice that the candle had burned down to the wick until the pain burst through his fingers.

\---

_. . . but Belle, my love, I didn’t truly realise what we had done until that moment. I don’t know what to think, or how to feel -- it’s as if my mind keeps going around and around in circles. I think about the potential for good that **she** claims her curses bring, and I wonder if it’s not morally right to let her continue. But then, of course, I remember your father, and my servants (how could I forget?), and I’m filled once more with the conviction that we were right to do as we did._

_Don’t misunderstand me. I wouldn’t wish my curse on anybody. And I would do anything to bring your father back unharmed. But . . . oh, I don’t know anymore. I’m half-afraid that I’m becoming like her -- believing that the ends justify the means, when I have always held that the moment a leader says such a thing, the ends are unjustifiable. And yet since I have started working with the people of Molyneaux, I understand the duty I assume she feels towards humanity._

_I’m sorry that this letter won’t make much sense, but it’s only an accurate reflection of my mental state right now. I also burned my left hand the other day -- nothing too serious, so don’t worry like I **know** you will -- but it hurts if I use it for too long, so I must curb my writing, piano, and sketching for the moment. I’m meeting with the village leaders tomorrow morning to see about gathering workmen to expand on the doctor’s surgery, and what our plan is for hiring a new teacher for the girls’ school; I will need as much control over this hand as I can spare, and so leaving this letter woefully short, I remain:_

_Your loving Mountanto_

_P.S. I had to scribble in this quick postscript before I sent the letter to you. Gaston finally joined us in one of our meetings. Obviously I had to pretend I had no idea who he was, but he seemed just as bold and brash as you described him to be, so the Enchantress’s meddling doesn’t seem to have affected him too much. Then again, maybe she did have an effect -- he seemed downright excited about the girls school, even after I made a point of saying that it would **not** be teaching them only housewifery. I asked Mme. Hoen after he left what his situation was (making her one of the leaders was the best decision anybody ever made around here -- let Versailles sneer at my ‘simple country ways’ all they want), and it appears not only is he married, he is also a father to twin girls._

_I just wanted to let you know what became of him, since I finally found out. I know you two were close once, even though it was many years ago. Once again, fair Béatrice, I remain,_

_Your Benoit_

_Dearest darling,_

_I wish I knew what to say to help you make sense of this quandary, but I feel as lost as you do. All I can think to say is what echoes my own morals; if it was you in that position, would you do as she has done? Maybe it makes me selfish to say such a thing, but I really don’t think that I would. If she had only **asked** , even once! . . . but, of course, she didn’t, and here we are. I’m sorry about your hand; you should ask Mrs. Potts if there are any aloe plants growing in the grounds or woods. Papa would get all sorts of scrapes, burns, and bruises from his machines; eventually I planted some aloe in the garden, just so that we’d always have it handy! Of course, this advice will reach you four weeks after the injury, so it won’t be helpful right now -- but for future reference, aloe helps with a burn._

_Thank you for telling me about Gaston. I’m happy that he seems to have moved on with no ill-effect. It seems almost strange to think about him with twin daughters -- when I knew him, he wouldn’t stop bragging about the brood of six or seven boys whatever woman he married would produce for him. I’m glad he’s at least helping with the village._

_It’s Papa’s birthday today. And honestly, this is the first time I’ve been able to think about him without it hurting. I’m not sad about it anymore; I can look back on him and smile fondly, and remember our years together. He taught me to dance, you know -- I stood on his toes a lot, but he never complained. I was never as good at inventing or construction as he was, but Papa always said that I was more like Mama than him. He told me once that she wanted four boys -- can you even imagine? You go through life wanting four boys and end up with a single daughter -- you spend countless hours bragging about your future half-dozen sons, and your first progeny are twin girls._

_I’m in a bit of a funny mood as well, darling. I think it’s just missing you; your smile, your voice, the way you bite your lip when you’re nervous. But it’s also a fear, as well. Because I once thought that I would never forget a single detail about the time we spent together, and now I find myself forgetting tiny details about the castle. If I can forget the colour of the carpet in the library, and the exact route I took to the West Wing, it’s equally possible that I can forget your face; both your faces, I should say. I feel an incredible guilt, sometimes, because when I read your letters sometimes I don’t picture your human face, the wonderful man I knew for a few short days, but the Beast’s face, which I knew for far longer. They seem like an echo of each other, at times. I’m still trying to be honest with you, which is why I’m keeping this paragraph in. I don’t want to hurt you, and I love you no matter which form you wear . . . but I can’t stop the fear that one day, these letters won’t be enough. That one day, I’ll forget you. That one day, you’ll forget me as well, and all we’ll have as a memoriam will be these letters and a ring on a chain . . ._

_For my Béatrice,_

_This letter is going to be nothing more than a note, because I have spent the past week working on this. It is . . . probably awful, but I want you to have it since you said you were afraid of forgetting. We made this choice because we knew we couldn’t live with ourselves any other way. I promise, I will remember you always._

_Your Benoit_

Belle gasped when she saw what he had enclosed with the letter. It was a small pencil sketch of the two of them reading in the library, at the table. She remembered that moment well; she had been reading her favourite passage from Romeo and Juliet aloud, while the prince had just listened. When she had glanced over to look at him, he had been resting his chin on his folded arms, his eyes drinking in her face and body language with love and adoration. 

Belle pressed the drawing to her heart, and carefully placed it in the little drawer where she had stored all of his letters for the past three years. The effort he had put into the drawing shone through, and Belle allowed herself to trace her fingers once over his pencilled face before she shut the drawer tight. It was, quite possibly, the most romantic thing that had ever been given to her.

\---

_. . . and thank you, dearest Belle, for your kind words regarding the legislation to protect those women who are unfairly pressured into marriage, and regret it afterwards. It was a long time coming, and we even faced some opposition within the village, but it was the right thing to do._

_I never even dreamed, the day we separated, that Molyneaux and the surroundings could change so dramatically in only four and a half years. It makes me feel that no matter what else happens, at least I did **some** good for the province. I can’t help feeling somewhat inadequate for the role, even after so long -- if it had not been for the curse, I would have been able to study hard and serve the people better. But then again, I would only have been able to study hard because of the accident of my birth into nobility. Maybe it would be best if the role of leader was not relegated to who married whom and bore such and such this child or that. (This may be treason, or at the very least sedition, but we have always promised honesty between us, have we not? I certainly won’t tell if you don’t.)_

_Although, speaking of the king, I believe that once word reaches him of this latest reform he will be greatly displeased. Versailles has never been the most progressive lot, and I have been receiving more and more hints that my land and castle can be taken away just as easily as they were given to me. At this stage, I almost don’t care. Every bill is a battle, every discussion a war. It is difficult enough finding money buried away in my family’s accounts; the king has been actively blocking all my further attempts to fund these reformations. I’ve begun to sell some items from the castle off -- things that nobody would ever notice missing, but which still hold value. I would far rather lose some of my own material possessions than unfairly tax the province after last year’s disappointing harvest and cruel winter._

_And still, my selfishness rises within me, because to tell the truth I am **tired** , my love, and I almost do not wish to keep fighting for Molyneaux. I think I could be just as happy, if not happier, away from all these complications -- with different struggles, of course; life is hard no matter who is living it. Nevertheless, I remember my duty to the people.  
I love you. And, if by some miracle you’ll still have me in three years, one month, and eight weeks, I want to marry you._

_Yours, always,_

_Mountanto_

“Belle, are you ready?” Edmond called out. “It’s almost time.”

“Coming!” she said, hurriedly tucking the prince’s letter out of sight. She glanced one more time at one of the clocks, using its face as a mirror to check that her hair was still arranged in the braids she had spent so long on that morning. She smiled at Edmond as she took his arm, closing the door to the shop behind her and locking it with the key M. Fauvent had given her at New Years. The old bookseller had been easing Belle into more of a managerial role since her 21st birthday; at 23 she now ran the shop for up to a month at a time while M. Fauvent travelled around for the sake of his health. 

Edmond had eventually stopped growing, although Belle privately suspected that he had another spurt in him, waiting. They still met up regularly to talk about books, although at sixteen Edmond no longer needed Belle’s help with his homework. Dressed in his Sunday best and with his limbs no longer out of proportion, Belle couldn’t help but feel oddly as if he had overnight become a young man, when she wasn’t quite looking properly.

“How is your father?” she asked. “Nervous?”

“Of course,” Edmond said. “I don’t know why, though. He’s been courting for almost a year, and engaged almost two months.”

“You’re always nervous about new territory with the person you love,” Belle said, stifling a laugh. “A wedding won’t be any different from that.”

As if on cue, they arrived at Jules’ little cottage, decked out with ribbons and flowers which Belle and the other women she was friends with had spent two hours arranging last night. Jules himself was standing by the door expectantly, his hands twisting round and round nervously. His eyes were no longer tired, but bright and excited. Belle felt a similar jolt of excitement burst through her. 

“Good morning, Jules,” Belle smiled, leaning over to kiss his cheek in greeting. He nodded back to her. Any observer might have seen it as rude or standoffish, but Belle knew that her friend was both intensely nervous and fiercely happy to be marrying the woman he loved. “Shall we?” she said, linking her elbow with Jules. Edmond took his father’s other arm, and the three of them made their way to the church. 

Just before they entered, Jules leaned over to Belle’s ear. “It feels juvenile to say, but . . . I’m honestly just as scared to do this as I was when I married Hélène.”

“Don’t be,” Belle said just as quietly. “I’ll be right behind you and Jacqueline the whole time. And I am beyond honoured that you asked me to sign the register as a witness. You chose a good, honest woman, who will be an excellent mother to Edmond as long as he needs one, and to any other children you might have.” _And she will be a far better wife to you than I ever could have made,_ she thought to herself. 

“Thank you, Belle,” Jules said. “You’re a good friend -- you always know what to say.”

“Go on, then,” she said, nudging him. “Your bride awaits.”

\---

In the following spring, five years and three months after she left the castle, Belle received a fat letter from the castle. She seized it almost immediately -- she loved it when the prince had found time to write lots to her, although he was very busy. She made an excuse to Jacqueline Leroy (whose glow of newlywed bliss had been replaced by one of early pregnancy) and quickly hurried upstairs, leaving Jacqueline to tend to the bookshop alone for a few hours.

_My love,_

_I’m afraid that this letter does not bring good news. At the time of writing this, I have just received word from the king and from my bankers. The one has told me that I am to be formally stripped of my family’s title; the other tells me that I am now officially bankrupt._

_It’s a blow. Honestly, I’m still trying to process it all. I knew that the king would only hold with the borderline insurrection and undermining of his authority for so long -- Molyneaux and the surrounding province are now, thankfully, much more progressive than most of the area around it. If I had grovelled a little more, been a little crueller to the people, perhaps -- oh, who am I kidding? My family’s less than noble beginnings has always tainted us with the scent of ‘new money’, and I knew from the moment I met the king that he would not approve of rebuilding the doctor’s surgery, let alone instating protective measures for women forced into marriage and education for girls._

_I am giving anything I can from the castle to the servants as a severance package -- they don’t deserve any of this. To be cursed for one decade and lose their livelihoods halfway through the next!-- the injustice of it stings. Cogsworth, Lumière and Mrs. Potts in particular have been there for me since the very beginning, and I have done my best to ensure either a second station or the promise of a well-earned retirement for each of them. Nobody knows what will happen to the castle, so I am taking matters into my own hands while I still can. Likewise, nobody knows what will happen to the estate. I will meet with the village leaders at midday, and urge them to complete as many works as they can before my replacement arrives. He may be able to change the legislation, but hopefully he would not be such a fool as to tear down a newly-constructed building._

_I know that I have complained a lot, recently, of how trying my work has been. But without it, I’m not entirely sure I know what to do with myself. I lack your strong ambitions, my love, but that doesn’t mean I wish to drift through my life. I intend to begin by visiting my mother in Italy -- now that I am free to leave Molyneaux without feeling guilty for taking time off, that is. This of course means that our letters will take much longer to reach each other. To that I can only say -- well, actually the words fail me at the moment, but you were always the one with a ready quote, dearest._

_I enclose in this letter as well all of the sketches I have made over the last five years. Some are memories of our time together, some are taken from life, some are merely fancies. All of them, I know, would take up too much room in the small valise I am permitting myself to take at the end of the month. So instead I entrust them to you, the woman who holds my heart still within her hands._

_I love you. So much. Sometimes I feel like I forget to say it._

_I’m sorry it has to be like this._

_Benoit_

Belle let the letter drop from her fingers to her lap, every word emblazoned on her brain. She turned her gaze towards her calendar, hoping that she would have time to send the prince a reply before he left Molyneaux forever. 

She let out a cry of both frustration and grief when she saw that the date one the letter was exactly three weeks behind the current date. Even if she sent off a letter immediately, it would not reach the castle in time for him to read it. Until the prince reached Italy and could write again -- up to two months travel, and six weeks for a letter to reach her corner of France -- she would be unable to contact him in any way. 

The reality of the situation hit her full force. As Belle lifted her hand to gently caress the prince’s ring from all those years ago, she felt the first sting of tears fill her eyes. Quietly, she began crying on her bedroom floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that took forever and a half. This is going to be a fairly long author’s note, so apologies in advance. Also apologies for the delay, but you can see why it took so long.
> 
> \- M. Fauvent’s name is taken from Les Mis, although his character is from the ‘91 movie. Villeneuve is taken from the 2017 film -- I made it a lot larger than Molyneaux simply because A) differentiation, and B) I liked the idea :)  
> \- Signor Mountanto and Lady Disdain are taken from Much Ado; Béatrice and Benoit are French version of Beatrice and Benedict.  
> \- I tried to figure out a history of French schools as best I could so that Jules’ job is at least plausible, but if I made a mistake I can only apologise.  
> \- Raise your hand if you love emotional honesty and support even over long-distance relationships!  
> \- I was originally going to kill off the prince’s mother without them meeting, but I thought that might be a bit _too_ mean.  
>  \- Shout out to some lovely reviewers who pointed out that the Enchantress wasn’t just screwing with them for no reason, and that Belle and the prince might need to consider that -- something which I honestly did not consider.  
> \- This didn’t make it into the chapter, but Gaston married one of the triplets. Multiple births runs in the family.  
> \- The king in ART is fictional, not based on any real French kings. I know that France has a history I am exponentially less familiar with than that of my own country’s, and that the prince’s ability to do as he does in this fic resembles basically none of said history. But like I said back in Chapter . . . idk, 3? -- this is not historical fiction. It’s not going to resemble real history too closely. 
> 
> Other things: there is only one chapter left. I am just as emotional as you about this fact. It will . . . _probably_ not be as long as this chapter. Who knows, really? Also the title is a ‘Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812’ reference because I am bandwagon-y musical theatre trash and it swallowed my life.
> 
> Until next time.


	33. Chapter Thirty Two - The Blessing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which parents meet their children, and realisations are made.

**Chapter Thirty Two**

**The Blessing**

The prince slowed to a halt halfway down the street, dropping his bag from his aching shoulder to the ground. Grimacing, he rubbed at the joint firmly as he scanned the large gates that adorned the street at spacious intervals. He knew the address by heart -- he’d been thinking of little else ever since he crossed the border -- but he still dug his mother’s last letter out of his pocket, to check his location for the hundredth time. He glanced up at the numbered gate he stood in front of, and felt a sudden light-headedness overtake him. 

He was standing right outside his mother’s home.

It had been two months of travelling, both by coach and walking, and yet at the final moment the prince felt as though he could not possibly take the final few steps through the gate, along the path and up to the front door of the house -- not quite a mansion, but certainly not a building one would find in the centre of town. The letter burned in his pocket, and he could feel an itching in his fingertips. Worrying his lip, the prince gently pushed open the gate as every step he took felt like it rang out across the entire neighbourhood. Sooner than he thought possible, he was standing at the door. He rapped on the wood, as his blood seemed to rush through his ears. 

After a long, agonising moment, the prince could hear the tapping of footsteps from inside the house. A young maid with rich, dark skin and eyes opened the door, her hair neatly pinned underneath the cap she wore. She smiled brightly, and a stream of quick Italian burst out. 

“I’m sorry,” the prince replied in the same language, considerably slower and stilted, “I don’t understand you. Do you speak French?”

“Of course, monsieur,” she said, switching effortlessly. “How may I help you?”

“Is the Lady Mercédès at home?”

“She is. If I may take your card, Monsieur . . .” she paused expectantly. 

“I -- I have no card,” the prince said. “But please tell her that her son has arrived, as I promised in my last letter to her.”

The maid curtseyed obediently and turned back into the house, not even a hint of the confusion she must have felt appearing. The prince bit at his lip while she was gone, tapping his fingers against his leg in a release of nervous energy. Before he had much time to worry the maid reappeared, bustling him inside the house. 

“If you’ll come this way, monsieur -- Madame is in the sitting room.” He followed her down a short hall, painted a calming duck-egg blue, and through a large pair of double doors which opened onto the sitting room. It was wide and spacious, with daffodil-yellow walls which caught the light from the south-facing garden it opened onto perfectly. 

But the prince could pay no attention to the room, charming as it was. He hovered at an awkward distance as the maid walked to a chair set by the largest window. He could not see the occupant of the chair, but when the maid had finished whispering her message a hand extended from the side, beckoning him closer. The prince walked around until he was standing in front of the person in the chair. 

Her face had thinned greatly, with premature wrinkles and dark hollows marking it. Her hair, once a rich auburn, had begun greying away. But her eyes were just as comforting and soft as he remembered, and in her soft, white dress, she looked almost identical to his memory of her. 

“Mother,” he said, his voice dangerously close to breaking. “It’s me.”

She moved closer to the edge of her seat, extending one hand to rub her fingers against the ends of his hair. He watched as her eyes flickered over his face, searching for some sort of sign that he was telling the truth. He took her free hand between both of his, pressing softly. Finally, her gaze shifted to his eyes. Whatever she saw in them caused her to take a shuddering gasp, suddenly gripping his hand tightly. 

“It _is_ you,” was all she said. In the next moment, the two of them were embracing, the prince quite unashamedly crying into her shoulder while she stroked his hair as if he was a child once more.

“Oh, Mother, I missed you,” he whispered.

“My boy,” she said. “My dear, dear boy. I _knew_ you would come back to me.” She held him back at arm’s length, drinking in his appearance. “You’re so _tall_ ,” she said. “And your hair!”

“You always said it would turn red eventually,” he laughed. 

“So I did,” Mercédès said, smiling fondly. “Well, don’t just stand there -- draw up a chair, make yourself at home!”

The prince did so, noticing that the maid had discreetly left the room at some point during their conversation. Mercédès clasped his hand as soon as he sat down again, and the prince pressed it once. 

“I sense we have a lot of catching up to do,” she said. “There are some things which cannot be expressed, even in letters.” 

“Yes,” the prince said. “I’m sure the note I sent you raised more questions than it answered -- especially with two month’s silence. I would have sent letters on the road, but I wondered if I wouldn’t arrive before them, when all was said and done.”

Mercédès laughed quietly. “You’re right, I am curious to hear what exactly happened between you and the king -- but you have been away for fifteen years, and there are probably upwards of a hundred stories that I need to tell you about your father and myself.”

The prince’s face fell, his brows gathering. “I . . . I’m sorry I never got to see him again.” 

“I know, my dear,” she said. “I’m sorry for that as well.” They sat for a moment in silence, before his mother reached out and rung a small bell on a nearby table. In a matter of moments, the same maid reappeared. 

Mercédès addressed her in fairly quick Italian, but even at his admittedly beginner’s-level understanding, the prince could make out the words ‘tea’, ‘room’, and his own, old, name, adjusted for the different language. The maid nodded, and quickly bowed out the room. 

“You’re much better at Italian than I am,” the prince chuckled after a moment. 

“Antonia and I have been together for many years now,” she said. “We both knew only the basics of each other’s language when we first met, but now we are fluent in both. It was a good project to fill my mind on my worst weeks, and even nowadays I find that there are intricacies and vocabulary that I am still unfamiliar with.”

“If I’m to be here for a while, I should start learning as well, shouldn’t I?” he said. 

“Tomorrow, my son,” Mercédès said. “We will have time enough for many things tomorrow. For now, Antonia will show you to your room, and you can get used to the house a little.” She patted his hand again, and the prince rose. 

“Before I forget -- Mother, do you have some paper I can borrow? I must write to Belle, and let her know I’ve arrived safely.”

“In the bureau by the door,” she said offhandedly. “You’ve missed the post today, but you can go into town tomorrow if you like.” 

“Thank you,” he said, picking up a small stack of paper before following the maid out of the living room and deeper into the house.

Although his mother had sounded perfectly normal when talking about Belle, had the prince seen her face he would have noticed that she wore an expression of profound concern. 

\---

The clock on the mantelpiece rang out the hour in soft chimes, rousing Belle from being half-asleep to a state of full consciousness once more. After a quick glance at the clock and the shop floor, she walked over to the door and flipped over the sign which read ‘Closed’ in handwritten script. The mid-August sunshine lit the shop without any need for candles, and Belle wondered how long it would be before Edmond arrived for their weekly hour together.

As she re-shelved the loose books and generally straightened up the shop, Belle allowed herself to reflect on the last letter she had received from the prince, three and a half months ago. She had it almost memorised -- not just the words, but his handwriting as well. Knowing the prince as she did, Belle understood that he would rather wait until he was at his mother’s house and she could reply easily, than send her a quick note on the road to which she would be unable to respond. The long absence of his letters, however, had her missing him nearly constantly. She re-read his old letters, reminding herself about the long conversations they had sustained over the years. It almost became a bit of a game for her, trying to remember what she had written to him based on what he responded with. The sketches he had enclosed with the last letter were close to her heart as well -- although she still held onto the drawing of them in the library, the first one he had sent her, as dearest in her affections. 

Belle had written all of this down, saving everything up for a letter which she suspected would be several thousand words long. The moment she received word from Italy, she knew she would breathe easily again. By her estimates, the prince should have arrived in Italy in June -- and if he had sent word back immediately, his letter should have arrived earlier that day. Of course, Belle knew rationally that the prince would settle in a little first, and write his letter in Italy if he hadn’t been writing it on the road. Despite this, she had waited for the post carriage every day since that last letter, and would continue to do so until she heard from him. She allowed herself one long, sad sigh in the relative silence of the shop. 

Suddenly, the door burst open and Edmond raced into the shop, clearly out of breath. Belle jumped at the sudden crash, rushing around the side of the counter to meet him. 

“Edmond, what on _earth_ \--”

“Jacqueline’s having the baby!” he panted. 

“Already?” Belle exclaimed. “It wasn’t meant to come for another two weeks!”

“Well, it’s coming now!” Edmond said. “Belle, I need you. Papa won’t be back until next week, and Jacqueline keeps yelling so loudly, and I tried to see what was wrong but she shoved me away and told me to get help, so I came over here as fast as I could but I don’t know what to do --”

“Calm down!” Belle said, setting her hands on his shoulders. “Edmond, go and get the midwife, and tell her that the baby is coming now. She’ll know what to do. I’m going to go to the house and keep Jacqueline company until the midwife arrives. Once she gets here, I want you to send a letter off to your father immediately, alright?”

“Okay,” Edmond said, his face settling onto something resembling calm. “Let’s go, then.”

In a matter of minutes, Belle had her cloak to ward off the evening chill, the keys to the shop, and a small pile of baby clothes which she had spent more time than she was willing to admit working on. She had never been an expert needlewoman, but Jules was her friend and Jacqueline a dear neighbour -- it was the least she could do to welcome in their new child. _It’s funny,_ she thought as she rushed to the Leroy’s house, _how life goes on around us even when we’re in the grip of despair._

\---

_. . . but I couldn’t do anything apart from be with her. We were both petrified; this was Jacqueline’s first child, and I knew precious little about childbirth apart from that it could be deadly. Luckily the midwife arrived soon, and she had us sorted out in no time. She kept me around, boiling water and preparing fresh sheets for the bed, but Edmond was barred from even entering the house, poor boy. I popped out whenever I had the chance to reassure him, as I’m sure he must have been terrified. Everything worked out perfectly in the end, though -- Jacqueline birthed her son just after midnight, and he was the loveliest thing I have ever_

_I’m sorry to cut off, my darling, but I’m sure you’ll understand. I fell asleep last night writing that part of the letter, and woke up this morning to finally, **finally** , hear word from you! I can’t tell you how happy this has made me -- I was half-afraid you had forgotten me._

_I’m so glad your mother is well, and that you finally got to reunite with her. She sounds like a lovely woman. You must try, my darling, to paint Italy in words for me as best as you can; I’ve never been outside of France before, and I’d love to hear what it’s like. I’ll bore you now, with a long list of queries about your life that I would love to hear about; how is the heat? Do many people understand you, or will you have to learn Italian? What does your mother’s house look like? . . ._

The young man smiled as he read Belle’s letter. She had clearly been writing it since she heard that he was leaving, as it contained as much detail about events from four months ago as it did about what, for her, had been only the day before. The lag between their letters and what was happening to them in real-time was a source of unhappiness, of course, but he was so relieved to hear from her again that he almost didn’t care. 

He glanced at the clock on his bedroom wall, and set Belle’s letter aside. He quickly walked downstairs, and rummaged around in the cloakroom for his outer garments. 

“Who are you off to today?” Antonia asked as he walked towards the front door. 

“The Bianchi’s,” he said. “I think Mother’s still asleep -- if she’s not up before I’m back, could you let her know where I’ve gone, please.”

“Of course,” Antonia smiled. 

“Thank you,” he said, grabbing his case of sheet music and starting the short walk to the Bianchi’s house. 

The young man had never intended to be idle while he lived with his mother. He had only waited a few days before he announced his intention to teach piano to those who could afford it, as a way of both paying for any expenses he acquired while living in Italy, and to have some money of his own. Mercédès had agreed with the idea, although she had been slightly tickled at the thought of her son, who had so hated his old master, becoming a piano teacher himself. Luckily for him, Mercédès was able to introduce him to a family who wanted their children to learn, and other families had joined on from that one. 

He rapped smartly at the door of the Bianchi’s house, the third family to use his services so far. One of their maids opened the door, and he made his way to the music room. Their second-eldest daughter, Maria, was already seated at the instrument, her fingers idly playing a simple warm-up. 

“Good afternoon, Maria,” he said. 

“Good afternoon, Signor Benoit,” she replied politely. 

“Shall we begin?” he asked, taking a seat next to the piano stool. The girl began to warm up in earnest, laughing with good humour over the little mistakes she made as her fingers remembered how they were supposed to move.

Mercédès hadn’t understood, at first, why he wished to be known by Benoit. He reminded her quietly that his original name had been stolen from him for over ten years, and that he didn’t feel anywhere close to the child who had once borne the name. It wasn’t as if he had picked the name at random, either -- although he had not told Mercédès that it was his correspondence with Belle that had really sparked his attachment to the name, ‘Benoit’ was one of the many middle names he had been saddled with upon his christening. 

If he had been asked, Benoit wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint the exact reason why he didn’t tell his mother about the extent of Belle’s influence. One part of it was fear that she would think Belle was manipulating him, even though their only relationship was carried out over letters, and both of them engaged in debates over the other’s actions, when appropriate or solicited. Another part was the knowledge that she did not seem to like hearing him talk about Belle, and possibly even disapproved of their letters to each other -- he wasn’t entirely sure about the last point, however. 

The young man knew that things would have to come out in the open at some stage, but for now all he could bring himself to do was enjoy catching up for lost time. When they did have the inevitable conversation, he knew that he would defend the woman he loved fairly and undoubtedly. And then, finally, his mother would understand why the former prince of a province of France loved a peasant girl with so much of his heart.

\---

“Good morning, Jacqueline,” Belle called as she descended from one of the high shelves in the shop. The latest shipment had just arrived, and while it was hard going sorting everything herself, Belle couldn’t bring herself to ask Jacqueline to come back to her job again. 

“Morning, Belle,” Jacqueline said, sitting down gratefully by the fire. She undid her cloak, revealing the six-month-old Henri wrapped in cloth against her chest. Belle darted around the office area, putting on a pot of tea, while Jacqueline divested herself and her son of all their winter outer wear. “It’s absolutely freezing today, isn’t it?”

“I’m glad I don’t work outside,” she laughed. “How is Henri doing? I haven’t seen you two for about a week, I think.”

“He’s not been feeling too well, poor thing, have you?” she said, directing the question to the baby. 

Henri wrinkled his brow, before sneezing pointedly. 

“Oh, the little thing,” Belle said. “Is he feeling better now?”

“Well enough to come out for a little while. Would you like to hold him?”

Belle stretched out her hands, wiggling her fingers slightly. With a laugh, Jacqueline deposited the baby into her arms, and Belle efficiently balanced him on her hip as she set about clearing a space on one of the chairs adjacent to Jacqueline. As soon as she had room, she sank onto the chair, moving Henri so that he faced outwards to the shop floor. Jacqueline’s eyes flickered around, taking in the assortment of books lying everywhere, as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. 

“When did the shipment arrive?” she asked. 

“Three days ago,” Belle said breezily, bouncing Henri gently on her lap. Jacqueline’s eyes dropped to the floor, and Belle hurriedly continued, “Oh, but it’s no bother!”

“Even when I was seven months pregnant and it was only _you_ running up and down those shelves, we’d have almost everything sorted after three days,” she said. “Have you been coping without me?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Belle said firmly. “You have to take care of Henri while he’s still little, after all. I’ve been doing well, and whenever you want the job back, it’s yours.”

“Well, that’s the thing . . .” Jacqueline said. “I’m pregnant again.”

“Oh,” Belle said. “Oh -- congratulations!” She lifted Henri up, so that she could address him face-to-face. “You’re going to be a big brother, Henri! That’s exciting --”

“And I don’t think I can take the job again this year,” Jacqueline interrupted. 

“Jacqueline --”

“No, Belle. I’m sorry, but -- well, the nausea is just too much for me in the early months. And last year I was perfectly happy working until eight months -- it gave me something to do with myself that wasn’t strenuous, or mind-numbingly dull -- but with Henri it just wouldn’t be feasible. That’s four months of work you’d get, _maybe_ five. And then I would be busy taking care of the new baby, and -- you can see what I’m saying.”

“Yes,” Belle said. “I’m sorry to lose you as a co-worker, Jacqueline. But still, you _must_ come in every so often, so we can have some tea and a chat.”

“Yes,” she chuckled. “And so you can get your fill of the babies.”

“Of course,” Belle grinned, taking the opportunity to bounce Henri on her lap a little. The baby began to shriek delightedly at the attention, his mouth open in a wide, toothless grin. The two women talked pleasantly for the next few hours, as Henri played on the floor, was fed by Jacqueline, and eventually drifted off in her arms. 

“I’m sorry we never really spoke before you married Jules,” Belle said after a long period of comfortable silence.

“We’re friends now,” Jacqueline shrugged amiably. “And we knew each other fairly well back then, anyway.”

“That’s true,” Belle said. “Still. It’s nice to get along with another woman.”

Jacqueline smiled, gazing down at Henri quietly.

“He’s so much bigger than even last month,” Belle said. “It seems unbelievable.”

“You’re telling _me_ ,” she said. “They grow up quickly, those little ones.” She traced a stray curl on Henri’s head, and then said quietly, “Do you ever wonder what would have happened, if things had gone differently? If you’d accepted Jules, and _I_ had stayed single instead?”

“W-what?” Belle’s face blanched. 

“Oh, no no no, Belle, I’m not asking out of some spiteful or petty reason!” Jacqueline said. “I just . . . I knew that he asked you a few years ago, and -- well, I _never_ thought I’d marry, let alone bear children. It’s just how life goes, I suppose.”

“Yes,” Belle said hesitantly. “Well . . . Jules is a dear friend of mine, and we get along very well, but I could never have married him.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t love him the way he deserved,” she shrugged. 

“It’s not always necessary for a marriage,” Jacqueline said. 

“But it _should_ be, I think,” Belle said fiercely. “And besides, I loved -- still love -- another.”

“The man whose ring you wear around your neck?” she asked gently. Belle turned to her in shock, and Jacqueline smiled. “You’ve been very discreet, Belle, but people tend to notice when an unmarried woman sends letters to the same address for six years -- and I noticed the ring myself.”

Belle felt for the chain automatically, although it was securely hidden beneath her many layers. “Yes,” she said. “That’s who I love.”

Jacqueline hummed thoughtfully. “The situation must be complicated, or you would have said something. You don’t strike me as the type to go after a married man, and a child would have started gossip, so it can’t be that. Or . . . ?”

It would have been unbearable nosiness in anyone else, but Belle could only feel relief at finally being able to share some of the tale to another person. “No,” she said. “I thought, for a few weeks, that I might be pregnant, but it was just stress. We have to -- it’s difficult to explain; really, I _can’t_ explain, you’d never believe me -- he’s coming for me. Next year.”

“And you’ll go with him?” Jacqueline asked. “It all sounds wonderfully romantic, but what about the shop? What about your life here?”

Belle had merely smiled at Jacqueline’s questions, when a timely cry from Henri distracted both of them from continuing the conversation. It wasn’t until later, when she was safely tucked in her bed, that she allowed herself to really consider the questions her friend had raised. In all the time that she had been waiting, it had never occurred to Belle to think about what would happen after she reunited with Benoit.

\---

The early March sunshine lit the yellow room with all the softness of candlelight, as Benoit and Mercédès sketched and knitted, respectively. Although they appeared peaceful, in point of fact both mother and son were in the midst of an argument which had been going on for most of the day. As similar in temperament as they were in appearance, they were both refusing to speak to the other, and had been obstinately doing so for the better part of the afternoon. 

Just as he had predicted, Mercédès had finally made her feelings about Belle known. 

“Benoit, you’re twenty-eight years old,” she’d said after breakfast that morning. “Isn’t it time you stopped pining after that girl and married a woman here?”

“Mother,” he had started, “my feelings for Belle aren’t going away anytime soon. Can you please just accept that?”

It had escalated, and both had lost their tempers for the first time in many years. They had the sense to stop fighting before something unforgivable was said, but Benoit had no pupils that day, and it had been raining too heavily to leave the house until only recently. So he had been cooped up with Mercédès all day, in one of the most uncomfortable silences he’d ever endured. 

She sighed heavily -- the first sound she had made all afternoon. Benoit’s eyes flicked over to his mother, as she laid her knitting down and turned to face him. 

“I only want what’s best for you,” she said quietly. “All mothers do, of course, but I’ve missed so much. It feels like only yesterday you were a child -- and only moments ago that you wrote to me, telling me about enchantments and curses and a girl who saved your life. But if you love her as you claim to, why have you been separated for so long, and so needlessly? _That_ is what I still don’t understand, Benoit.”

“If we’d made our grand speeches to the Enchantress about free will, and then turned around and married straight away, wouldn’t that just have encouraged her to curse another boy?” Benoit said. “And you forget, Mother -- Belle’s father _died_ because of the Enchantress’ involvement. We couldn’t -- _I_ couldn’t let something like that happen to another girl’s father, because of the whims of an Enchantress.”

“But what are you going to do, when the time is up?” she asked. “You have a life here in Italy, and this woman has a business.”

“We’ll address that when it comes,” Benoit said. “I still love her, and I know she still loves me, but it’ll have been almost eight years since we last saw each other. Neither of us expects things to go back to the way they were when I was twenty-one and she was eighteen.”

“She was eighteen?” Mercédès said, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline. “You never mentioned she was so young.”

“What? I must have, at some point,” Benoit frowned. 

“Not that I recall,” she replied. “I was . . . opposed to her mainly because I thought she might be manipulating you. Such things are not unheard-of in a girl so young, but . . . well, it changes my perception of her more than slightly.”

Benoit merely nodded. While he was pleased that Mercédès finally seemed to be coming around on the subject of Belle, he was more than slightly frustrated that seven years of his own opinions and information hadn’t swayed her nearly as much as learning Belle’s age. 

“She’ll have been the subject of men’s affections, if she’s half as lovely as you say she is. Are you _sure_ her heart still belongs to you?”

“Belle and I have always been honest with each other,” he said. “She told me of any proposals she received just as I told her of mine. She’s not doing it for my money, or title -- if she was, we’d have lost contact after I lost both of those things. She loves me, Mother. And I love her. Can you please just accept that?”

Mercédès was silent for a long moment. 

“You’re an awful lot like me,” she said eventually. “But it’s times like these that you remind me most of your father. He fought for love, as you fight for it now, but his parents were never truly happy with our marriage.” With a curl of her fingers, she beckoned Benoit over, and he knelt down beside her chair so that their eyes were level. “Benoit, my son, you have my blessing to journey back to France and meet with Belle. And, should you both wish it, you also have my blessing to marry her.”

“Thank you, Mother,” he choked out, overcome with emotion. He kissed her cheek tenderly. “You don’t know what this means to me.”

A quick rap at the door diverted their attention, as Antonia walked in with the mail. Sensing that the atmosphere in the room had finally settled, she began chatting to Mercédès merrily as Benoit opened up the latest letter from Belle. He knew what it was going to say almost before he read it -- it was three months and seven years since she had left the castle, after all -- but his breath still caught as he read the first lines. 

_Benoit, my darling,_

_The rose has begun to wilt._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No teasing this time, it’s not the end. If you know me, you’ll know this isn’t something I really do -- when I say I only have one chapter left, I really do mean only one, like, ten times out of ten. I tried to get it to work, but it ended up dragging too long, and I was especially attached to the idea of an epilogue, to go with the prologue. So, pinkie promise that next chapter will be the final one. I think the main reason this got so long is because I really wanted Benoit and his mother to have a good chunk of time together which, honestly, they deserve. Also, he has a name now! 
> 
> You don’t know how many cute baby videos-deep I got sucked down the YouTube rabbithole when thinking about how Henri would move as a six-month-old -- which, of course, I barely ended up referencing.
> 
> This could technically be read as an end-point, but I’m invested in Belle and Benoit re-uniting. That said, as hinted, said reunion may not be instantly blissful or easy. Eight years is a long time, even if you have constant correspondence and love. 
> 
> Seriously, I _am_ sorry that I couldn’t get it in one like I promised. (Methinks there is a metaphor in there somewhere) See you next time, for the final chapter. (Pinkie swear this time!)


	34. Epilogue - Hands Against Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Our Heroes meet again.

**Epilogue**

**Hands Against Hearts**

“Well,” Edmond said, flexing his fingers as he laid aside his pen, “I think that’s the last correction I had to make.”

“Read it over again later tonight, after your mind has cleared out a little,” Belle said. “It’s important to get your essays right.”

He nodded, piling up the papers and tying the small stack with a length of twine. “It seems impossible to believe that I’m almost a teacher -- it feels like only yesterday that you were tutoring me.”

“Believe me,” Belle said, “sometimes it seems impossible that you’ve grown so much in the last seven years. And next week you’ll be twenty!” She pressed a hand to her forehead melodramatically. “Where have the years gone, that the little boy I knew suddenly became a handsome young man overnight?” Edmond laughed, and Belle joined in after another moment of pouting. “Since we’re on the subject of you growing up . . . how’s Lisette?”

Edmond blushed scarlet. Ever since the new minister and his family had moved to Villeneuve in the spring, he had found himself drawn to their sober and serious eldest daughter. Belle routinely teased him on the subject, although she also gave him surprisingly shrewd advice on how to best approach her. 

“Fine,” he managed to say eventually. “She told me that she hoped I would pass these final exams, and that the district could use a good teacher.”

“There you go, then,” Belle smiled. “Now, you promised me and Jacqueline that you would help look after Henri and Louise once you finished your final draft. Get back to the house, quick as you like.”

“I’m not a child, you know,” Edmond said. 

“I know,” she replied, “but if I don’t chase you off now we’ll sit and talk about the latest shipment until the sun sets, and I have to make sure everything was delivered.”

“Oh? What have you got this quarter --”

“Go!” Belle shouted playfully, nudging Edmond -- who was now tall enough to reach shelves that she needed a ladder for -- out the door.

“Goodbye,” he laughed, as she shut the door in his face. Still with a smile on his face, he began to walk back to his father’s house. He bundled his cloak closer to himself, as a chill wind blew down the street. Just before he reached the turn-off for his house, Edmond noticed a man walking in the semi-lost way that all visitors had in an unfamiliar town. He had never seen the man before; if it had been summer, Edmond would have just dismissed him as a merchant or holiday-maker. But it was the middle of November, and the appearance of a stranger piqued his curiosity. 

“Excuse me, monsieur; are you lost?” he asked, walking over to the man. 

“Quite possibly,” he said, with good humour. “I’m looking for a bookshop run by a woman called Belle Dupont; I have the address, but I’m having some trouble finding it.”

“I’ve just come from there,” Edmond said. “It’s further down this street, with a bright blue door -- you can’t miss it.” He paused for a moment, and then continued. “Can I ask why that bookshop? Do you know Belle?”

“Yes,” the man said. “I’ve known her for many years. Thank you for the directions, Monsieur --?”

“Leroy,” he said. “Edmond Leroy.”

To his surprise, the stranger smiled as if he was well-acquainted with him. “Thank you, M. Leroy.” With that, the man marched down the street to Belle’s shop. Edmond stopped to watch him walk away for a moment, before resuming his walk home. He couldn’t help feeling ever-so-slightly more adult; it was the first time _he_ , and not his father, had been called M. Leroy in Villeneuve.

The stranger continued walking down the street, until he saw the bookshop with the blue door. He stopped outside, several feet away. His lips seemed to tremble, although you would only be able to tell if you were standing right in front of him. Steeling himself, he walked up to the shop and carefully stepped inside. 

The aroma of paper and ink filled him as soon as the door shut behind him. He looked around the shop, drinking in the high shelves, beautiful covers, and five clocks ticking away on the far-away wall. He ran his fingers over the proud, unbent spines of the books, smiling at the soft noise it made. A sharp pop and crackle alerted him to a fire merrily burning in a large grate, by which some chairs stood. The stranger eagerly warmed his hands by the fire, rubbing at his fingers and tugging off his gloves, noticing the well-worn and comfortable chairs that were placed near the grate. Still, he looked around him as if there was something missing from the picture. 

“Hello?” he called out hesitantly. “Is . . . is anybody here?”

In the distance, he heard a woman reply, “Oh, are you a customer? I’m so sorry, I’ll be right with you.”

The stranger stepped away from the fire suddenly, quickly tucking his gloves in his pocket and smoothing away flyaway hairs from where they had escaped the ribbon at the nape of his neck, as the woman kept speaking. “I know the sign says we’re still open, but I wasn’t expecting anybody else to come in at this time of day, so I was just noting down some stock.” She got steadily louder as the sentence wound on. As she finally popped out from a door behind the checkout register, she said, “I hope you haven’t been --”

At the sight of the stranger, her mouth dropped open, and her hands fell from a mid-shoulder height -- where she had presumably been gesticulating, unseen -- to near her waist.

“-- waiting long,” she finished in a murmur. Her brown eyes were wide, her mouth still open. 

“Not long,” Benoit said. “Only seven years, seven months, seven weeks, and seven days.” Although his words were brave, his voice trembled. 

Belle walked forwards slowly, as if in a trance. She stopped short about a foot in front of him. They were close enough to touch. Benoit’s fingers abortively reached for Belle’s hand, although the rest of his arm didn’t move. He drunk in the changes almost eight years had brought to the woman he loved; the way her face had angled into the planes of adulthood and shed all traces of adolescence; the sleek bun she wore her hair in, although strands still escaped; a dignity and poise in her posture which hadn’t been there before. But her eyes were lit with the same wonder he remembered, and her hair still escaped pins and ribbons in the same way, and she was still, quite simply, _Belle_.

“You grew a beard,” she said, as if she didn’t quite believe it. She blushed a moment later, covering her mouth with her hands. “Eight years, and _that’s_ the first thing I say!”

Benoit laughed, ducking his head. He stroked said beard, which had grown out in a shade closer to strawberry blonde than the bright auburn hair on his head. “Do you like it?” he asked. “I, uh, forgot my razor on the trip back up here, and by the time I had access to one I already had quite a bit of hair, so I -- well, you can see for yourself.” He could feel himself blushing, too. 

“I just can’t believe you’re here,” Belle whispered. “You’re finally here.” She was the one who closed the gap between their hands, and the feeling of her fingers wrapping around his almost made him gasp. 

“I’m here,” he murmured, daring to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. Belle leaned into the contact, raising her other hand so that it kept his on her cool cheek. Benoit did gasp at that, and her eyes met his in a flash. She squeezed his other hand gently where she held it, and he returned the pressure. This close, he could see the freckles which dotted her forehead and cheeks, and the flecks of green in her eyes which he had interpreted, all those years ago, as a muddy yellow. He had arrived with few expectations -- neither had thought they could jump back into the relationship where it had left off, and rightfully so -- and yet with every passing second, he grew surer and surer that Belle wanted to kiss him again as much as he wanted to kiss her. 

With great restraint, he merely pressed his forehead against hers. This close, he could feel her cool breath on his face, and there was no chance of his rapid heartbeat going unnoticed. Belle moved her hand from the back of his, still caressing her cheek, to his own face, running her fingers from his smooth hair to his rough but neat beard. Her breath hitched, and she let out a soft, almost involuntary noise in the back of her throat. 

Unable to take it any longer, Benoit lowered his head so that his lips brushed hers, in only the merest suggestion of a kiss. 

“Benoit,” she sighed, reaching up to pull his face close for a proper kiss. Her lips were so soft beneath his, her hand so strong, her caress so intimate. Their mouths moved together, as Benoit ran his hand through the hair she had loose, and Belle moved her searching fingers from his face, to his neck, to his shoulders. They both kept a firm hold on their other hands, gripping them like a lifeline. To be able to kiss her again had seemed like an impossible dream, and yet here he was standing in her bookshop. He tasted salt water on Belle’s lips, and he couldn’t tell whether they were his tears or hers. 

They drew apart silently, and Belle finally let go of his hand to pull him into a tight embrace. Benoit followed her lead, wondering anew at how perfectly she fit beneath his chin, and how snugly his hands locked around her waist. He could smell the faint perfume of the soap she used in her hair, and a few more tears slid down his face and into her dark locks. Belle’s hands fisted the material of his cloak as she pulled him, impossibly, even closer. 

“You’re actually here,” she said, slightly muffled by his shirt. 

“Yes,” he said shakily. 

Belle stepped back slightly so that she was still in his embrace, but no longer pressed tightly against his body. Tear tracks lined her face, and her nose had gone bright red, and she had never been so beautiful. He said the last part aloud and she laughed, and it was like the sun had risen after a long, cold, dark night. 

“Do you actually like the beard?” he asked. “Because if you don’t, I can shave --”

She cut him off with a kiss, and Benoit couldn’t remember anything quite as wonderful as Belle interrupting him with kisses. Quite possibly she hadn’t had the chance, back when he had newly transformed. 

“Benoit, I loved you back when you were covered head to toe in fur. I loved you when you had no hair at all except what was on your head. I loved you when you were only words on a page and my own imagination.” Her eyes were piercing as she spoke. “I couldn’t care less what you look like -- I’m just so happy you’re finally here, darling.”

“Call me that again?” he asked quietly. 

“What -- darling?” she asked, confused. 

“No,” Benoit coughed. “My name.”

“Benoit,” she breathed. He closed his eyes. The love of his life was calling him by name for the first time, and it was almost too much to hear her musical voice say it. “Benoit,” Belle said again, and she surged onto her tiptoes to kiss him with passion. Every time they broke for breath, she said his name, and he choked hers out in return, filled with emotion. 

They sat down eventually, after Benoit remembered that he had walked several miles that day and his feet were aching. Belle flipped the sign in the door over, and brewed a pot of tea for them both. They were sat until late in the night, simply talking about anything and everything that came to mind, until the talk ran dry and they were enjoying the silence. Benoit kept a loose hand intertwined with Belle’s, and every so often he would rub his thumb along the edge of her fingers. She hummed thoughtfully at the contact, and periodically raised their hands so that she could kiss the back of his hand softly. 

“Belle,” he said quietly, some time after the clocks had chimed midnight, “I know you already got my letter but . . . well, I know it’s probably too soon to think about it, but -- if you still wanted to marry me, in the future, I have my mother’s blessing to do so.” He felt oddly as if he should be beet-red, but he was filled with calm instead. 

“I’m glad,” Belle said. She had unpinned her hair after complaining about how tight it was, and wonderful copper tones developed wherever the firelight hit it. “I’d love to meet her, someday.”

“I . . . I’d like that, too,” he admitted. “But I’m not sure if . . . she can’t travel here, and I used most of my savings coming up here already.”

“Benoit,” Belle started, sitting up and turning to face him head-on. “I don’t understand -- she’s your only family left. I thought you always wanted to see her again.”

“She’s not my _only_ family,” he said, dropping his gaze to their linked hands. “I know we said that jumping back to where we were would be a bad idea. I still agree with that. But Belle . . .” He looked back into her eyes, willing her to understand how certain he was about his choices. “I can get work here -- whether it’s as a piano teacher, or as something completely different. I’m more than willing to do whatever I can to make this relationship work, because I still love you. And one day -- not now, not yet, but one day -- I want to marry you.”

Belle raised her free hand to the neckline of her dress, and flicked out a gold chain with her thumb. Hanging at the bottom, just the same as Benoit had last seen it, was his old signet ring. 

“I want to make this work, too,” Belle said. “I’ve been waiting a long time to finally put this ring on my finger.”

With a delighted laugh, Benoit swooped from sitting beside Belle to kneeling in front of her chair. He surged upwards, one hand gripping the arm for balance, as he claimed her lips in an overjoyed kiss. Objectively, it was one of their worse kisses, as they were both smiling too much to really connect. But a moment later, Belle’s hands were gliding across his arms and her mouth opening to his tongue. Benoit let out a sound as she kissed him fiercely, allowing his own hands to caress her neck and seize her waist. Her breath was as sweet as he remembered, and her hair just as soft as he ran his hands through it. 

After another hour or so of intermittent talking and kissing, Belle eventually went upstairs to her rooms as Benoit settled in front of the fire. They had embraced tightly before she left, Benoit playfully holding onto her hands for as long as possible until eventually her fingers slipped away from his, and she shut the door separating the shop and living quarters firmly behind her. He flung his cloak out, using it as a blanket while he arranged the cushions on the chairs as a pillow, trying to get as comfortable as he could, and allowed the firelight to wash over him as he replayed the numerous embraces of the night.

Tomorrow, he would find a place to stay in Villeneuve that was _not_ his fiancée’s shop floor. During the next week, they would officially begin a courtship, and Benoit would finally meet the townspeople who he had been reading about for so long. He would spend Christmas and New Year’s with Belle and the Leroy’s, and find work teaching piano to the upper classes of Villeneuve. His twenty-ninth birthday would be his last as a bachelor. Belle’s twenty-sixth birthday would be her first as a wife. 

The following autumn, M. Fauvent would officially hand the bookshop over to Belle, and begin his retirement. Belle and Benoit would spend hours poring over books and music together, and he would sketch anything and everything that took his fancy. They would learn that Edmond and Lisette were engaged almost before the parents of the young couple did, and both Belle and Benoit would be a part of the wedding party. Three years after he married Belle he would take her to meet his mother in person, and the two women would get along famously, to his enthusiasm and Antonia’s hilarity. On the way back to Villeneuve, Belle would discover that she was pregnant. In the early springtime, the child would turn out to be a boy. A sister would follow in summer of the next year. The children would grow, as children did, and be lulled to sleep each night by the almost-fantastical tale of an enchanted prince, a merchant’s daughter, and the books that brought them together. Benoit would sketch memories for them, and Belle would play the Clarke piece -- much poorer than when she was eighteen years old -- and the children would wonder if it was really true or not.

One day many years in the future, after both children had married and begun families of their own, an old beggar woman near death’s door would appear at the shop -- her emerald ring faded and dirty, her eyes pale and filmy, all traces of her former power gone -- and beg once more for Belle and Benoit’s forgiveness. They would grant it.

But all of that was to come. For the moment, Benoit curled up in the large chair -- _Like all those times in the library, when I was a Beast,_ he thought semi-ruefully -- and with kiss-stung lips, a happy heart, and anticipation for what the next day might bring, fell asleep swiftly; his heart, broken and cracked no longer, beating in tandem with his soulmate’s. 

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s a wrap!
> 
> This story has been such a huge part of my life for the last two years. I tried to be ‘mature’ and ‘consider the repercussions of an eight-year-long LDR’, but . . . what can I say? I’m a romantic at heart. I had to give the beard line a nod; likewise, it didn’t feel right to have the Enchantress not come back one last time. 
> 
> Speech time! First off, I’d like to thank the users on the Bittersweet and Strange forum, for helping me brainstorm plot points, directing me to resources I wouldn’t have otherwise found (such as the Jeremiah Clarke piece that Belle plays), and just generally being the best people ever. 
> 
> Secondly, I’d like to thank:
> 
> So-crates Johnson, for the gorgeous fanart she drew of Belle and the Beast playing piano.
> 
> TrudiRose, for her insightful concrit about Gaston’s motivations, which directly led to Chapter 13 being written.
> 
> CarolNJoy, for pointing out that Belle and Benoit had forgotten why the Enchantress tended to curse people :P
> 
> enchantedxrose on tumblr (aka ladymacbeth99), for creating a beautiful moodboard for this fic. 
> 
> Third, I would just like to thank all my commenters; Amyliana, Molly, WixyPagan, RPGgirl514, pixelbott, greensearcher, watty08, and Backuppixiedust. 
> 
> Fourthly, (and lastly), to everybody who subscribed, kudos’ed, or just read this thing -- thank you. So much. It’s been an amazing two years writing this. 
> 
> What’s next? Well, I’m finally going to dip my toes in fanfic for the remake, that’s what! Keep your eyes peeled, and until next time I have been, and will continue to be,
> 
> TheTeaIsAddictive

**Author's Note:**

> The first 13 chapters of this story were originally published on fanfiction.net, from 2/9/15 - 8/4/16. Updates will be cross-posted to both sites.


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